


Exceeds Expectations

by Darksidekelz



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Origin Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-28
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-09-27 11:21:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10017743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darksidekelz/pseuds/Darksidekelz
Summary: Prowl is looking for a bright mind to help him create weapons for the Autobot cause.  What he gets is more than he bargained for.





	1. Extra Credit

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter's a bit short, but I couldn't think of a better place to split it. This is just my take on Prowl and Mesothulas's relationship. I am pretty sure the rating will go up at some point, and I'm not sure if that warning will actually stick, but it's me, so I figured it was likely. Anywho, for now, it will stay as is.

"Were you able to find it?"

Perceptor glanced up from his data pad, cold blue eyes scrutinizing Prowl, trying to uncover his every uncouth motivation and secret.  As smart as Perceptor was, he was hopelessly outmatched in this respect.

"I was," he said at last, relinquishing a defeated sigh.  His hand moved to the screen of his tablet, flicking absently between various data that Prowl could not see.  "Though I feel that I should let my reservations be known.  The University of Iacon is an unaffiliated organization and intends to remain as such.  Your significant position amongst the Autobots is no secret, and the intention behind your request is no mystery.  I should remind you, that it is not our duty to produce weapons for _your_ cause, no matter how much you pay."

"Noted."  The scathing judgment was expected, and consequently disregarded.  The university was home to some of the brightest scientific minds Cybertron had to offer.  It was only a matter of time before they came around to the right side of history; Prowl already had plans underway for such an occasion.  But that was all tangential to today's visit.  He wasn't here to convert anyone to the cause.  He wasn't even technically here for the weapon he had commissioned.  Prowl was here to find potential, to determine what resources were at his disposal, and to plan accordingly.  The weapon was merely a means to an end.

Begrudgingly, Perceptor handed him the data pad, its display locked on a set of schematics.  Stasis bullets.  Prowl was not an engineer, nor could he pretend to fully understand the intricate details of the impossible ammunition that lay before him.  But he understood the gist – exactly to his parameters.  One hit from a gun filled with _these_ little beauties would leave the target completely paralyzed, according to the tests, for up to three hours, depending on the size of the bot in question.  This was perfect!  Better than even _his_ calculations had accounted for.

"Impressive."

"Horrifying, more like," Perceptor said, keeping himself busy by pretending to shuffle through the remaining data pads stacked on his desk.  "I would prefer you do not come back to us in the future.  It is only a matter of time before the Decepticons find out about this, and I'd prefer to not go down that road.  As far as you're concerned, our institution had nothing to do with your twisted projects.

Prowl ignored the protestation.  Perceptor was a smart mech, undoubtedly – one did not become dean of the Department of Science and Technology at the premier university on the planet, without knowing a thing or two.  But socializing was not his strong suit.  He would bend to Prowl's superior will, no doubt.  "I must admit, what I am reading here goes far beyond my expectations.  I would love to personally commend the team behind the project – perhaps give them a little bonus for their hard work."

"It wasn't a team," Perceptor said, without looking up from his task.  "There were not a lot of mechs clamoring to develop weapons to aid in the Autobot war effort.  And among those that _were_ , most did not quite have the skill to create what you had specified.  Your project, as it were, is the brain child of one of my graduate students."  He pulled a tablet from the middle of the stack, and began flicking through it, as he had with the previous one.

" _One_?"  One?  A single mech had stepped up and produced a weapon unlike any that had existed before, from an idea alone?  He'd had no team to back him, to brainstorm with, to review his work – just whatever amenities the university provided him with.  Prowl had anticipated a two percent chance of such an ideal outcome.  It was exactly what he'd hoped for, but far from what he'd been anticipating.  He _had_ to know more!

"Yes," Perceptor said, finally handing the tablet over to Prowl.  "This one."

_Mesothulas._

 


	2. Introductions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mesothulas meets his mysterious benefactor for the first time. He is thrilled at the opportunity being given to him. And also terrified.

Mesothulas was surely blessed. 

It was the only explanation.  As a two-wheeler, he should have been condemned to a meaningless existence of servitude at best – no independence, no individuality, nothing to separate him from any other of his kind.  And true, that was how his life had begun. 

But he had been born at the dawn of a major change that swept Cybertron like a storm.  The rise of the Decepticons had likewise given rise to all manner of bots, for the first time, opposing the Functionists, and slotting themselves into positions they never could have dreamed of even a few years prior.  He had been lucky to find himself as a student at the University of Iacon.  Such a fate was almost exclusively reserved for the intellectual classes, and his alt-mode was nearly as far from intellectual as it got.

But if earning his place amongst Perceptor's best and brightest had been a dream come true, then being hand-picked by a high-ranking military official for top secret projects, in his very own lab, filled to the brim with state of the art equipment, and free to do anything he could put his mind to?  Surely he was still sleeping!

This, _Prowl_ , whomever he was, had to be either a saint or a demon, and as gifted as Mesothulas felt at the moment, he couldn't bring himself to care which.  The mech had given him everything he could have desired – at barely two hundred years old, Mesothulas's life was complete.  And as far from servitude as he'd been carried, Mesothulas would have sold his soul to Prowl of Petrex in an instant, such was his gratitude.

He arrived at the location that was to be his new secret laboratory (how cool was that?!  A _secret_ lab!) with an arm-full of tablets and a tremble in his step.  He could have sub-spaced the tablets easily, but truth be told, he needed something to hold onto, something to remind him that all of this was _real_.  He'd never felt so nervous in his life as he descended those stairs, into the underground cavern that awaited him.

Prowl was already there. 

He was a severe-looking mech – lithe and pretty, yes, but with a stark black-and-white paintjob – the unmistakable coloration of a cop.  Surely he had left the force already, if he was working with the Autobots, but it didn't do much to inspire confidence in Mesothulas.  The police had always enforced Functionist law in the past; they'd never been kind to those looking to transcend their alt-modes.  What if Prowl had kept the attitude?

The thought did nothing to help with his spark, which was currently pulsing somewhere in the vicinity of his throat.

"You are Mesothulas?"  Prowl asked.  The question was formality.  Prowl already knew full-well who he was, and had likely spent days pouring over every byte of data in Mesothulas's file.  He was feeling a little outmatched, to be honest.  He easily could have looked at Prowl's public record, but fear had foolishly kept him from it.  He wanted to keep alive the hope that his benefactor was a . . . maybe not a _good_ person, but at least one that complimented his own personality.  Looking at Prowl's stern face, he wasn't so sure this would work out for either of them after all.

"I am!" he replied cheerily, hoping that if he kept enough of a smile in his voice, he'd be able to hide his blatant fear.  "And it is an _honor_ , Sir, that you were willing to give me the opportunity to serve . . ." was that too Functionist?  "To _work for_ you.  I thank you, with all of my spark, for providing me with the opportunity to prove myself –"

"You are the brain behind the stasis bullets, are you not?" Prowl interrupted, completely unmoved by Mesothulas's gushing gratitude.  Had he come on too strong?  Who would have thought that, given all his impossible achievements, the most difficult challenge he'd ever faced was saying 'hello.' 

_Damn it all!_

"Yes.  That was me," he answered, trying his hardest to keep his frame from slumping, defeated.

"I was most impressed by your work."  A compliment!  The way he said it was admittedly, a little ominous, but Mesothulas would devour it like the live-providing sustenance it was. 

"Thank you, Sir!"

"How many bots do you think, could do what you did?"

What kind of question was _that?_ Prowl's icy demeanor gave Mesothulas the impression that he was being interrogated, but surely Prowl wouldn't have called him all the way out here if he found him suspicious.  Or perhaps that was _exactly_ the case.  The others at the University had been concerned about the morality behind the project.  Perhaps they had been right to be.  Perhaps this was an opportunity to weed out undesirable mechs?  Mesothulas was suddenly feeling very foolish for having come out alone and unarmed.

"Err, well – I admit that I can't account for _every_ bot, of course, but the project itself wasn't very complicated.  I can think of at least five or six other bots off the top of my head that _could_ have pulled it off . . ."  Where was Prowl going with this?

"Five or six, you say?  Why then, were you the only bot who bothered to provide me with any results?"

"I –"  He had to be careful what he said.  He wasn't entirely sure he trusted Prowl yet, and the reasons to be cautious seemed to be piling up.  What was with these questions?  It was certainly a test of some kind.  But was it one that Mesothulas could actually pass?  And what were the consequences if he failed to?

"There was some question as to the morality of creating a weapon with the desired specifications," he said, slowly.  The truth would be the easiest card to play.  He just hoped it was the right one.

"Oh?" Prowl responded, raising an optic ridge.  "And why then did _you_ chose to take it on?  Are you saying that you are immoral?"

That was the expected lead.  And it really was too late to back out now.  Best stick with the path he'd started on.  The truth was easier to justify than getting caught in a character-redeeming lie.  The truth.  Right . . . 

He just had to remember to keep the air flowing over his vents.  _You can do this, Mesothulas!_

"I believe that there is no greater cause than the pursuit of knowledge," he assured with as much confidence as he could fake.  "Some may find what I created to be unscrupulous.  But to me, there is no such thing.  There is only testing the limits of possibility."

Prowl wore an unreadable look.  Was that it?  Had Mesothulas thought failed?  Was he going to get shipped back to the University?  Or worse? 

But then, after a long moment, Prowl's lips twisted upward, just the slightest bit.  Oh thank Primus!

"I am pleased to hear that, Mesothulas.  That is the exact sort of attitude I am seeking."

Mesothulas vented a sigh of relief, all at once aware of how foolish he must have looked.  Fortunately, Prowl spared him the further horror of coming up with an explanation for _that_.

"I sought you out because you did what the others could not, or _would_ not, and _that_ is what I need for this position.  I cannot promise you that everything I ask of you will be morally sound, but it is the greater good I am fighting for here, and I expect you to understand that."

Oh.  Well, then.  Mesothulas could do _that._ "Ah, then I am glad to be of service."  Admittedly, he was a _little_ bit nervous about the affair.  If a lack of morality was a job requirement, then what exactly was it that Prowl wanted him to _do_?

"But before we begin, there is _one_ more thing I would like to ask you."  It was never that easy, was it?  And Prowl's expression had become unreadable once again.  Mesothulas really hoped he'd be able to come up with the right answer again.

_The truth.  Just tell the truth._

"Yes?" he squeaked. 

"I've noticed that you have no faction.  You are aware that, under me, you will be employed for the Autobots, yes?"

"Er, yes!" he replied, nerves pushing his voice higher, faster.  That probably wouldn't do.  _Vent, Mesothulas.  You got this._ "What I mean to say is, neither side much appealed to me.  Both have their flaws and strengths.  But none of that matters to me.  All I care about is . . . well, the specimen."

"The specimen?"  Prowl folded his arms beneath his generous chest, not that Mesothulas was staring.  "What do you mean by that?"

And this?  This was going to sound . . . strange.  But the truth had served him all right thus far; he may as well keep going.  Besides, the 'specimen' was important to him.  It was the very reason he'd pursued the sciences so vehemently in the first place.  And it was clear to him that Prowl was up to some shady business – the interrogation was to see if Mesothulas was the right fit for the job.  How could Mesothulas risk his life creating morally dubious weapons for a mech that scoffed at his life's philosophy?

Prowl needed to know, and Mesothulas was going to tell him.

"What I mean is, and forgive me if this sounds crazy, but _I_ think that Cybertron – the planet, the civilization, even the war that we're fighting amongst ourselves, is alive.  Not _literally_ , of course," he laughed.  "None of the above possess the traits of a living _organism_ , but on a metaphorical level, the comparison cannot be denied.  Our world is an entity.  Functionism, a disease that has plagued it for so very long.  And the Decepticons – are they the vaccine?  Or one more virus, come to destroy the host?  Oh!  It's just so fascinating!"  He folded his hands together, gushing over the conclusion he'd spent his life reaching.  Whatever Prowl thought of it, he didn't notice.  He was too lost in his own fantasies to pay any attention to anyone else.

"Ever since I was a Protoform, I knew I wanted to affect our world.  It's why I dedicated my life to science, even though my frame would better function elsewhere.  I want to see it for myself – see our world grow and change, in a constant state of flux, just as we, ourselves are.  And more, I want to alter it myself.  I want to observe the ways that tiny, insignificant lifeforms are able to heal, destroy, _affect_ something greater than they.  And what works on the larger level can be translated to the small.  We can help ourselves – protect from diseases, enhance our longevity, become the _perfect species_ , by observing how we ourselves affect the world we live in!  Isn't it fascinating?" 

Prowl didn't seem to think so.  His eyes were as flat and severe as ever, his frown as stern, his frame as neutral.  It was only natural.  What Mesothulas spoke of probably sounded insane to the average person.  At least he could take comfort in the fact that Prowl wasn't scoffing.

"And this," he said, carefully, "is your sole motivation?"

"Yes," Mesothulas replied, less confident than before.  Prowl was looking skeptical.  If Prowl didn't believe in him, then he would take away this beautiful lab, and all of the opportunities that came with it.  And worse – Mesothulas had heard tell of some of the shady things the Autobots still got up to – Shadowplay, the pet project of the Senate.  He could lose his memories of this encounter if he didn't answer correctly.  Maybe even his knowledge of the 'specimen' altogether! 

He'd just have to do a better job of explaining himself, to make sure it didn't come to that.  Prowl had asked about faction.  _Faction_ was his primary concern, not Mesothulas's motivations.  He could work with that.  "That you are an Autobot is irrelevant," he explained, "but because it was _you_ who granted me this opportunity, then it is to _you_ that I will provide my services.  I can assure you, there is no risk of me being bought off by Decepticons."

"But you will not take the Autobrand."

Mesothulas paused to consider it.  What did _Prowl_ want to hear?  "If you wish to make it a requirement of my . . . internship, then I would gladly take it, but . . ."

"But?" Prowl sharply prompted, startling Mesothulas.  How was a Praxian frame so damn intimidating?

"But I don't feel that my values particularly align with those professed by the Autobots.  It just wouldn't feel particularly honest for me to join them."

Prowl took a moment to think it over, his face as unreadable as ever.  Hopefully he wouldn't cast Mesothulas out; he was really looking forward to getting to know Prowl well enough to parse those ever-blank expressions.  And the potential loss of memory was better left untouched.  But at last, Prowl seemed to have come to his conclusion.

"I believe, Mesothulas, that this arrangement will be beneficial to us both."

Oh thank Primus.  "Thank you, Sir!  You won't be disappointed!"

"I do not expect to be."  He stepped back, gesturing broadly to the room around him.  "I have stocked this laboratory with several amenities that Perceptor recommended to me.  If there is anything else you require, send a message to my private comm; I shall send you the frequency."

"Oh?  Couldn't I just go out and get it myself?"

Prowl shook his head.  "You are not to leave this place without my permission.

Come again?  "I'm sorry.  Did you say I couldn't leave?"

This time Prowl nodded.  Master of emotional delivery, this one.  And also at downplaying the major.  "I did.  But I would prefer if you didn't."

"What is this?" Mesothulas choked, "It's like you're asking me to join some kind of cult!  I'm _stuck_ here?!  I'd rather be an _Autobot_ than trapped for the rest of my life!"

"It's just until the war is over.  The work I wish to employ you on is," he paused, waving his hand, as though he were looking for _just_ the right word.  Mesothulas suspected he was just being dramatic.  Prowl seemed the type of mech who always knew _exactly_ what he wanted to say.  Manipulative creep.  " _Sensitive_ ," he continued, his expression still neutral as ever.  "It is the reason behind the extra security.  _Very_ few mechs know of this place, Mesothulas.  And I would prefer to keep it that way.  Should you become compromised, then all the good work that we are trying to do here will be for nothing. 

"We both know that the Autobots like to claim moral righteousness is on their side, and when compared with some of the deeds of the _Decepticons_ ," the venomous way in which he spat that last word was perhaps the first time he'd shown any real emotion.  He had some personal stake in this war; Mesothulas was sure of it.  "It is not an unreasonable claim.  Optimus Prime, in particular, would be displeased to find out what goes on in the shadows, beyond his awareness.  But wars can't be won through righteousness alone.  _Someone_ has to get a little blood on his hands, and I have volunteered _myself_ for the job. 

"And that is why we need the secrecy.  It is _imperative_ that you do not go out, that nobody knows that you are here, working on the, admittedly, morally unscrupulous projects that I assign you.  Anything you require will be brought, of course, but you cannot leave.  Is that suitable to you?"

Mesothulas's instinct was to say 'no.'  What Prowl described was beyond scary, violating boundaries Mesothulas hadn't even been aware he'd had.  Could he _really_ stand to live in this glorified cave until the end of the war (whenever _that_ was)?  Could he really agree to never again feel the light of the sun, or going out on a whim?  He would be no better than a slave if he accepted this, signed his life away to Prowl's every command.  But at the same time, what else _was_ there waiting for him?

The effect the war would have on their world was delightfully uncertain.  Before its onset, as a two-wheeler, he would been no better off than a slave anyway.  As a graduate of the University of Iacon, he would have had the opportunity to pursue a career in his field, but again, his alt mode would have barred him from the higher end jobs.  In a way, working for Prowl would be a dream come true.  He had been chosen for his skill, and would be able to put his processor to the test every day, working on projects that would surely alter Cybertron forever.   A two wheeler, making his mark on society!  It was unheard of!  And further, working in this location would allow him to act as an outside observer, isolated from the war, while still able to keep an eye on the 'specimen' he was so fond of.  He could have everything he ever wanted, and all it would cost him was his freedom.

So be it.

"I believe so, yes," he said, after a moment.  "I am glad to be of service."

For the first time, Prowl smiled – a full, genuine smile.  He was pretty when he smiled.  "I am glad," he said.  "You have made the right choice."  And that was the extent of his praise. 

From there it was immediately on to business.  For his first task, Prowl apparently wanted him to develop a means of remotely hijacking another bot's mind.  It was quite the step up from stasis bullets, but already Mesothulas had a few theories as to how to best go about it.  He could just sense it; this was going to be the beginning of something excellent!

He and Prowl were going to make a great team.

 


	3. Falling Grades

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mesothulas is either the best thing to ever happen to Prowl. Or the worst. He hasn't quite worked it out yet.

Mesothulas was everything Prowl had hoped he would be, and more.  His first project had been an overwhelming success.  Already, Prowl was using it to create a series of sleeper agents to infiltrate the Decepticon forces worldwide.  And it was only up from there.  Time and again and again, Prowl would make his way down to Mesothulas's secret lab, ask for a new weapon to wield, and be rewarded in kind.  Mesothulas was perfect.

But Prowl was all too aware just how precarious the situation was.  To say the kid was dangerous was a generous assessment.  From their very first meeting, he had proven himself dismissive of morals, eager to please, and perhaps the slightest bit unhinged.  Prowl wasn't worried about treachery; at the very least, Mesothulas seemed to be quite fond of his benefactor.  The real fear was for his _own_ mind.

Mesothulas was in a position where he would and _could_ give Prowl anything he asked for.  He wasn't just some bright, young scientist working for the good of the cause.  The kid was some kind of magical creature, capable of granting wishes, for all the difference it made.  If Mesothulas could make anything Prowl dreamed a reality, then the possibility of crossing the line from justifying the means with the ends, into full on evil (whatever _that_ was) was all-too plausible.  He would have to be careful.

And on a slightly less terrifying note, there was always the possibility of his little project being discovered.  Prowl had stowed Mesothulas away underground in the middle of the Rust Sea, his location known only to Prowl himself, all for the sake of security.  He couldn't afford to let anyone else, Decepticon, Autobot, or Neutral find out about his little pet project.  And so, he took further precautions.

With Mesothulas's help, they devised a radiation moat to put in place around the laboratory.  Within the harsh terrain of the Rust Sea, such an anomaly would not be impossible; the average mech would be dissuaded by the danger and leave.  Anyone a little more stubborn would find their systems fried and their plating wasting away unless they protected themselves with some heavy-duty armor (Mesothulas designed Prowl's suit himself).  Mesothulas and his lab were about as secure as could be.  So why then, was Prowl still afraid?

"Prowl?  A word please.  Alone"

Maybe _that_ was why.  He knew it was only so long until someone became suspicious; it was unfortunate that someone happened to be Optimus Prime.  It was pathetic, he knew, but even Prowl wasn't above the longing so many Autobots felt, to receive the Prime's approval.  He craved acknowledgement of his successes, his deeds, of the fact that _he_ was going to win this war for them.  The opposite then, was a terrifying premise.

But he was jumping to conclusions.  There was no reason to assume that Prime wished to speak with him about his and Mesothulas's most recent endeavor.  Well, aside from the anger in his voice.  The Prime so rarely got angry.  And compounding that with the fact that he wanted to meet alone?  Was it any wonder Prowl was jumping to conclusions?  He figured there was about a 56.4% chance that Optimus was going to call him out for making unscrupulous weaponry. 

To be fair, their last invention _had_ been a bit much.  Even _Prowl_ had been terrified by its power.

"Do you know why I called you in here?" Optimus asked, once in the privacy of his office.

"I can only offer suspicions," Prowl responded, unsure of himself. 

Optimus waited patiently for the explanation, gazing at Prowl with a coldly neutral expression.

"The spark extractor?" Prowl offered.

Optimus's silence was confirmation enough.  But Prowl didn't like it.  There was something about Optimus's silences, the keen way in which they expressed his disappointment, that hurt more than any word could.  He needed to defend himself.

"Decepticon membership has been soaring in light of the Zeta Prime disaster.  Our troops were being overwhelmed; we were losing ground regularly.  We _needed_ a weapon with that kind of power.  If we can't beat back the Decepticons, then we may as well surrender now."

"This is _not_ the way!" Optimus snapped.  Prowl had never seen him so angry before.  But somehow, the anger only bolstered his confidence.  Optimus was angry because he knew Prowl was right, right?  "I've been reading reports on the event all morning, and I am not impressed, Prowl.  This weapon is morally unconscionable on every level, and will only encourage the Decepticons to escalate in the destruction."

"The destruction has _already_ escalated," Prowl retorted.  "I am trying to save lives!"

"Not like this, Prowl.  Not mowing down thousands who don't have a prayer of fighting back – ripping the very spark from their frame, defiling their existence.  No.  I know you work behind my back; I've turned a blind eye to many projects I find reprehensible, because our situation is desperate.  But this is where I draw the line.  What point is there in fighting the Decepticons if we allow them to turn us into monsters for the sake of victory?"

"Why bother fighting an enemy we _know_ we can't defeat?" Prowl countered, but Optimus wasn't having it.

"Not like this," he repeated with finality.  That was it.  That was the conversation.  Project: Spark Extractor was a bust.  Prowl would just have to come up with something else for Mesothulas to build – something with a smaller range perhaps?  Not that it mattered.  If Optimus was right about _anything_ , it was the bit regarding escalation.  Surely the Decepticons had already begun work on an even more powerful weapon to keep up. 

He'd keep the spark extractor in storage, just in case.

His mood may have been sour, but Prowl knew the one thing that could cheer him up.  How was it that the only ally he had with a lick of sense wasn't even an Autobot?

"Prowl, welcome back!"  Mesothulas was always so happy to see him.  It never failed to be refreshing, least of all after a day like today.  "Come!  Take off that armor and get in here.  I have something to show you!"

"Is that so?" Prowl smiled.  He truly did love how enthusiastically Mesothulas approached his work.

"Yes, yes," Mesothulas confirmed, impatiently grabbing at the massive hand of Prowl's armor, and leading him down into his workspace.  "It's a trifle naughty – I'm afraid I didn't follow your specifications to the letter, but I think you will be pleased with the results."

And indeed, Prowl _was_.  He always was.  Mesothulas was brilliant at anticipating his needs – needs that Prowl himself hadn't even considered.

"Mesothulas, what is this?"  The vat before him was a sickly green, and from atop it wafted a dangerous looking smoke.

"Careful, don't get too close!" Mesothulas warned.  "It's _quite_ dangerous!"

Prowl gave him a probing look, begging for an explanation.

"I call it 'Tox-En,'" he explained.  "My newest weapon of mass destruction!"

"What does it do?" Prowl asked, cocking his head.  He'd never seen anything of the sort before.

"Well, I took my inspiration from organic creatures.  As a mechanical race, we have very few illnesses, relatively speaking.  Cosmic Rust, and Cybercrosis are the major ones that come to mind – a few smaller illnesses too, but nothing quite like what organics face.  And thus, your average Cybertronian has no idea how to deal with – plague, for instance.  It's simply genius!

"And that what this is – a highly affective plague.  Attacks the neural net, the spark – drains it at contact.  Even its _fumes_ are toxic!  Prolonged exposure will result in death within – well, I'd estimate fifteen minutes, a little longer if it's filtering through your ventilation systems."  He slammed the lid on the vat; the room was dimmer already.  "Pretty lethal weapon, wouldn't you say?"

Prowl would.  Already, he'd thought of dozens of uses for the weapon.  And yet, Optimus's words lingered in his head.  ' _Not like this.'_

"What's wrong?"

Prowl shook his head, to dispel the image of his disappointed Prime.  Mesothulas was more pleasant company.  "I'm sorry, what?"

"You look upset.  Do you not like it?"

Again, Prowl shook his head.  "It is very . . . inspired, Mesothulas."  That was a strong enough word, right?  "It's just . . ."

"Too much?  Chances of falling into enemy hands too high?  Yes, I could see that.  It would be disastrous if the Decepticons got a hold of such a thing.  The Autobots too, to be honest," he chuckled, despite himself.

Mesothulas was too accepting.  Prowl didn't understand.  Surely he had spent much time on his project, and Prowl was dismissing it outright.  He must have been hurting, even if he didn't show it. 

_Good.  What did he think he was doing, making something so horrific?_

Prowl shook his head once more.  He needed to focus.

"Is something wrong?  You look a little faint.  Perhaps you should sit down?"

"I'm fine," Prowl protested, even as Mesothulas's hands guided him away from the Tox-en and to a seat in the corner.

"Nonsense!  You look terrible.  I'll get you some engex.  You look like you could use it."

Prowl didn't argue.  His pride didn't like the idea of taking charity from anyone, let alone a subordinate, but Mesothulas was different.  He was a very perceptive young mech, always eager to see that Prowl's needs were met.  And the secrecy of his existence added a sense of security.  Mesothulas was safe.  There was no one he could tell about Prowl's weaknesses and failings.  He was like Prowl's own personal diary.

"Is work getting to you?" he asked, rifling through some cupboards.  "Decepticons doing too well?  I should hope not!  With the weapons we've been throwing at them.  Come to think of it, how did the spark extractor work out for you?"

Prowl slumped over with a groan, only to find a cube of engex shoved into his hand.

"That poorly?"

"What am I doing, Mesothulas?" Prowl sighed, taking a swig of the bitter drink.

"Winning a war, of course!" Mesothulas replied cheerily.  "Giving your all to do so.  Sometimes things don't work out quite right, but –"

"Optimus told me that we would not be using the spark extractor again."

Mesothulas paused, his optics widening in a moment of fear.  But it passed just as quickly as it had come.  "Ah, well, that is unfortunate."

"He believes it to be . . . how did he describe it?  'Morally unconscionable on every level.'"

"Is that what he said?" Mesothulas mused.  "Well, isn't that the point?  Wars aren't won with hugs and handshakes."

Prowl looked up at that.  "No, I suppose not."  Of _course_ not.  He knew this.  Cognitively, he knew that he wasn't wrong.  And yet, when it was _Optimus_ looking at him with disappointment, it was so much harder to stomach.  Was he really doing the right thing?

"Prowl," Mesothulas said, taking a seat next to him, and laying a hand on his shoulder, "You're doing the _right_ thing.  Think of how many more mechs will die if the war keeps going on.  We need to end this fast, right?  Besides," he reached out with hesitant fingers, brushing against Prowl's jaw, and turning it to face him.  "You've already made a difference.  To me, at least, if you'll forgive my saying.  And so many others too.  It's hard to see it from where you're standing, but trust me.  You're doing some real good here."

Maybe he was right.  Or maybe it the heartfelt sincerity in his eyes had some hypnotic power.  All Prowl knew, was that, in that moment, he believed in Mesothulas's words.  Optimus was many things, but a brilliant strategist he was not. Prowl's actions would win the war, whether Optimus liked it or not.  He didn't need approval.  All he needed was his own mind.  And help from his little miracle-worker. 

He rose to his feet.

"I have a new task for you."

"Yes?" Mesothulas asked, eagerly following Prowl across the room.

"Our prisons are overcrowded, and Optimus is not allowing us to execute the prisoners.  I would like you to take a break from weapons to solve this problem.  Can you do that?"

The look in Mesothulas's eyes said it all.  Prowl suspected he would have followed him to Hell itself, if only he asked.  The mech was magical, dangerous, and in that moment, exactly what Prowl needed.

"Of course!"

 


	4. Science Project

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mesothulas seeks to please Prowl with his newest project.

It wasn't right.  He had worked so hard on the Positive Reinforcement Prison; why had Prowl canceled the project?  He'd done everything right; devoted himself to making Prowl happy, and in the end . . . no.  If Prowl didn't approve of Mesothulas's invention, then there was surely a good reason for it.  Prowl was a smart mech.  He knew what he was doing.

Didn't he?

Yes, of course!   _Prowl_ knew what he was doing.  It was his allies that did not!  Optimus Prime always complained that Prowl's actions were too . . . what was it?  Morally unconscionable?  Surely _he_ was behind Prowl's rejection of his project.  Albeit, that particular speculation didn't align with Prowl's excuse that a Positive Reinforcement Prison 'eschewed the concept of punishment.'  Maybe it really _was_ Prowl and Prowl alone who axed this project, but . . . but . . .

But there was nothing to be done for it.  

Prowl had ordered him to find a means of keeping their prisoners that would actually function as a deterrent to misbehavior, and Mesothulas had no intention of letting him down.  His first idea was a bust, but Mesothulas was a _fountain_ of ideas.  Prowl had a knack for bringing that quality out in him.  There was no _way_ Mesothulas would disappoint him.

Come to think of it . . .

The last project Prowl had axed was the Spark Extractor.  Mesothulas could understand why Optimus hadn’t liked it, but what if its principles could be applied to a different experiment?  Sparks _did_ take up less room than bodies after all.  If he could find a way to sustain a disembodied spark, he could very well resolve the issue of holding the prisoner surplus.  Oh yes!  This would be perfect!

~~~

Prowl was frowning again.  He was always frowning when he came to visit.  It shouldn’t have been so strange by this point, but over the years, Mesothulas had grown adept at translating the many varied frowns of his boss.  This one, with the tired eyes and the drooping door wings and slumped shoulders, was his morose frown.  Prowl looked as though he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.  And he _did_ in a sense, didn’t he?  He was the bot who was going to win the war.  Or he would have been, if only his superiors would let him.

Mesothulas hated the expression.  More than anything, he wanted to see Prowl happy.  If only he could leave this place, he would hunt down Optimus Prime himself, and give him a very brutal piece of his mind.  Mind control, perhaps?  Or straight up murder.  He hadn’t decided yet.

“I’ve got something to turn that frown upside down, Boss, so don’t you fret!”

“I’m sorry,” Prowl said, switching to his frown of confusion.   _Much_ better!  “‘Fret?’”

“Oh yes,” Mesothulas said without missing a beat, “You look sad today.  I suspect that Optimus has been riding your tailpipe again?”  He danced his way behind Prowl, unhooking clasps, and helping him out of the radiation-resistant armor.  

“Roadbuster.”

“Roadbuster?”  Mesothulas didn’t know who that was, but he would _die_ if he ever got his hands on him.  “Who is that?”  The armor was gone, but Mesothulas didn’t move away.  He remained at Prowl’s back, allowing his agile hands to reach in between door wings, to massage at the stiff joints in his shoulders and neck.  Prowl melted into the touch.

“He’s just some nobody thug that fought his way into an officer’s role.  He’s nothing.  I outrank him.  But he’s too much of a punk to pay attention to the chain of command.  He questions all of my orders.  He’s gone over my head once or twice.  I just . . . It doesn’t matter.”  He shook off Mesothulas’s grip with a flick of his door wings, and marched forward, deeper into the lab.  “You said you had something to show me?”

“Ah, yes!”  Mesothulas too, scurried forward, until it was _he_ who led Prowl through the dark corridors he’d come to know so well.  “I know you weren't a big fan of the Positive Reinforcement Prison, so I set out to make something more in line with your specifications.  I decided to combine the principles of a few of my scrapped projects in order to create a solution to your prison problem that even _Optimus_ cannot contest!”  

He whirled to a stop in front of a chamber – large enough to fit the average heavy-class mech.  A number of adjustable bindings were fastened to the chamber walls, a mechanical arm was resting near the ceiling, and a control panel sat at the front.  All in all, it looked a little intimidating, though no one could mistake it for an obvious implement of torture.

“What is this?”

“A spark extractor!” Mesothulas grinned.

But Prowl seemed less pleased.  “I already told you, Optimus Prime has forbidden us from using such devices to defeat our enemies.”

“Oh no!” Mesothulas laughed, easily anticipating Prowl’s misconception.  “This is not made for killing.  It is for _storage_!”

“Storage?”  Prowl’s door wings gave the slightest twitch – the only sense of curiosity in his otherwise stoic frame.

“These bindings,” Mesothulas pointed at the cuffs on the sides, at the back, that would fasten around a bots wrists, ankles, waist, head, and any major kibble, “exist to keep a bot from moving around and hurting itself while that arm,” he pointed upward, “fastens itself to the spark.  We have these cables,” he indicated two cables wrapped around posts on either side of the door, “to keep the spark stabilized as we pull it from the frame, and we plant it into _this_ box,” he nudged a box stored below the terminal.  “The box mimics the systems of a body - we can even store the brain module in a container in the top.  It allows us to contain a mech – a prisoner for instance, in a significantly smaller space than a full-body would require.  The frame can be melted down for materials, or cut down to more manageable pieces, or whatever else you’d like to do with it.  It doesn’t matter.  The essence of the target is sustained in here, and can be retrieved and implanted into a new frame whenever they have served their time, or whatever it is you have in mind.”

Prowl was frowning again, but there was a certain sparkle in his eye.  He was pleased.  Mesothulas was practically vibrating in glee as Prowl stepped past him, stooped down and picked up the box to better examine it.

“This . . . this is genius,” he said, his lips quirking up ever so slightly.  “Do they suffer without their frames?”

Mesothulas shrugged.  “That is up to you, I suppose.  The box will keep the spark stable, so they cannot panic themselves to death, for instance.  Whether or not they retain consciousness, awareness of the fact that they have no body, and are, in fact, trapped in a little box, is at the discretion of the warden.  I personally feel that it’s not much of a punishment if the prisoner doesn’t suffer, which I know is important to _you_ as well _,_ but I do so know how much of a softspark Optimus Prime is, so I figured it was best to put the choice in there.  Especially given how weird your boss gets over the sanctity of sparks.”  Mesothulas faked a shudder.  “I'll never understand it.”

Prowl kept nodding throughout the explanation, then with little fanfare, placed the box back under the terminal.  For the Prowl that Mesothulas had grown accustomed to, that would have been it, but evidently Prowl was in an unpredictable mood today.  He turned around, moved in close, and grasped Mesothulas’s shoulders, pulling him in close into a momentary embrace, before releasing him.  “I _knew_ I made the right choice in investing in _you._  You make the impossible obsolete!  Yes, this is genius!  I shall bring it up with Optimus right away.”  He moved away, back into the corridor, a happy spring in his step, and Mesothulas, stunned from the voluntary contact, took a minute to realize that he was meant to follow.  He scurried to catch up.

“Y-you mean that?”

“Of course I do,” said Prowl, smiling.  “You really do great work down here, Mesothulas.  It always pains me when I have to deny a project, when I know how hard you’ve worked on them, when I can see the clear genius in everything you make.  But this?  I can see a future for this.  This is perfect.   _This_ is the sort of good news I needed today.”

Mesothulas was walking on clouds, his spark bursting off into the air to keep the rest of him aloft.  How was Prowl’s praise capable of having such an effect on him?  Perhaps _that_ should be the basis of his next project?  A weapon to distract the enemy by telling them exactly what they wanted to hear!

. . . No.  He’d done that one already.  As a prison, at least.  But there was no reason he couldn’t weaponize it.  He’d been praised the last time he reversed a project in such a way.  Yes!  That one  would be waiting for Prowl the next time he came to visit.

“I am glad that you like it,” Mesothulas said, feeling strangely faint.

“You are a miracle worker, Mesothulas.  You really are,” Prowl continued, though his eyes were distant now, his smile withdrawn.  Something was wrong, though Mesothulas couldn’t fathom what that could possibly be.  

“Prowl?”

Prowl’s eyes fell on him, vivid and blue, scrutinizing him, peering deep into his very spark, as though he could read Mesothulas’s every thought.  And knowing Prowl, he probably could.  Mesothulas didn’t mind.  His life was an open book to Prowl.  He wanted Prowl to know him, wanted Prowl to know everything about him – his thoughts, his dreams, his desires.

_But what is it that_ you _are thinking, Prowl?_

And then, just as soon as Prowl’s strange mood had come on, it left.  He shook his head absently, and brushed past Mesothulas, in the direction of the energon storage.  Mesothulas had little choice but to scurry after him, following as faithfully as he ever did.

“Are you alright, Prowl?  You seem a little distracted.  Is something wrong?”

“Hm?” Prowl lowered a door wing to peer back over a shoulder.  His frown was neutral this time.  Had Mesothulas imagined his earlier morose state?  “Oh, no.  Nothing is wrong.  I will be needing a schematic of your spark storage prison, of course, to show to the Prime for approval but . . .” he trailed off, his frown deepening.

“You’re not ready to go back yet, are you?” Mesothulas commented, quickening his pace to walk at Prowl’s side.  

“Perhaps not.”

“That’s no problem!” he grinned, with perhaps a bit too much enthusiasm.  “You can stay the night if you would like.  There’s only the one recharge slab, but I’ve spent so much time down here, my sense of day and night cycles have been thrown out of whack.  I keep pretty irregular hours as it is, so feel free to take the slab.  It’ll be no problem for me.

“That is unless, of course, you’re on a schedule . . . ?”  He almost hoped that Prowl would deny it.  Silly as it was, a part of him really _did_ want Prowl to stay the night.

Much to his chagrin, however, Prowl didn’t answer the question.  He reached the energon storage and popped open a cupboard, rummaging through Mesothulas’s supply, as if he lived there, as though it were perfectly normal for him to be peeking into another mech’s fuel supply.

“You’re running low on mid-grade.  I’ll order you some more,” he said, pulling out a cube.

“Oh, thank you!”  He hadn’t even realized.  Prowl was so thoughtful.

And, it was while lost in thought, that Prowl took a seat upon a stool that Mesothulas himself preferred to perch on as he refueled.  That was his ‘thinking stool.’  He’d come up with plenty of wonderful ideas while sitting in that stool.  And Prowl at least, seemed in the spirit of the seat.  He hadn’t even touched his energon yet, instead, opting to stare absently as the dim lighting flickered off the silvery surface of the fuel in the cube.  Mesothulas knew better to interrupt a mech thinking so deeply.  He could wait.

“Do you ever . . . get lonely down here?” Prowl asked at last.

Mesothulas shrugged.  “Sometimes.  Work usually keeps me busy enough that I don’t really think to be lonely.”

“I see,” said Prowl, at last taking a swig of the drink in his hand.  Mesothulas waited patiently for him to speak again, eager to hear what it was exactly that was on his mind.

“I admit, I’m a little envious.”

Envious?  Prowl?  Mesothulas nearly choked at hearing the words.  

“It probably sounds strange, doesn’t it?” Prowl mused, clearly aware of Mesothulas’s dramatic reaction.  “Why would anyone want to live underground, alone in the darkness?”

“It’s not so bad down here,” Mesothulas protested, dimly aware that he was only down here because Prowl asked it of him.  But it was the truth.  His life on the surface hadn’t been amazing; he was a two-wheeler.  There was no real place for him up there.  But down here, away from the lingering vestiges of Functionism, away from the Autobots and the Decepticons, able to fully throw himself into creating new and amazing masterpieces for his Prowl, he could be the bot he was meant to be.  He didn’t need other mechs, so long as Prowl came down every once in awhile, to speak with him, to praise him.  “I’m able to accomplish a lot, and there are few distractions.  Down here, I’ve got everything I need.”

“Yes,” Prowl nodded.  “It’s a very simple life.  I think . . .” he trailed off, suddenly hesitant.  What was it he couldn’t say?  “I think I wouldn’t mind coming home at the end of the day, if it was to a place like this.”

Mesothulas’s spark was pounding in his chest.  Prowl probably hadn’t meant anything by it, but it was strangely romantic.  Just the two of them, living underground, away from the rest of the world, creating a new life all on their own.  In that moment, Mesothulas wanted nothing more than to do just that.  “You could, you know.”

Why had he said that?!  Prowl’s door wings drooped in a mournful sigh.  Of _course_ Prowl couldn’t do that!  He was a high-ranking Autobot official!  He was out there saving the world, and it was clearly important to him that he do so!  And even if he kept his job out there, the point of keeping Mesothulas down _here_ was to prevent others from finding him.  The secret would be significantly less so if Prowl was coming down at the end of every shift.

“Ah, n-never mind!” he rushed to say.  “That was – I shouldn’t have said that.  I know you can’t come live down here with me.  But, I mean . . .”  He was babbling.  He was _babbling_ , and Prowl was staring at him with a perplexed little frown.

_Keep digging that hole for yourself, Mesothulas._

“I mean, maybe it _does_ get a little lonely from time to time.  I just – I really do enjoy spending time with you.”

And _that_ was the right thing to say!  The corners of Prowl’s mouth turned up, ever so slightly, though his optics remained distant, wistful.

“I do miss the simple life,” he said, before chugging down the rest of his energon.

What did that mean?  “Forgive my asking, Sir,” Mesothulas ventured, daring to step closer, “but what do you mean by that?  Did you . . .”   _Have a conjunx?  Have an amica?  Have a lover?  A partner?_ “Live a _simple_ life before?”

Prowl easily saw through the clever ruse in his words.  “Before the war,” he responded, absently setting the cube down on the counter beside him, as though he’d sat down and shared a drink in Mesothulas’s secret quarters a million times before.  “His name was Tumbler . . . we were very close.”

“What happened to him, if I may ask?”  They were so close now, nearly touching.  Mesothulas was but a few feet from Prowl, crouched with his hands braced on his knees, trying to make eye contact with a mech busy staring off into his distant memories.  It was improper.  Prowl should have told him off, ordered him to move back.  But he did no such thing.

“He’s alive,” he said, but the heavy slump to his shoulders left the opposite impression.  “The war split us up.”

“I’m sorry, Sir,” Mesothulas murmured.

“It’s fine,” Prowl said.  It clearly wasn’t.  “We never would have worked out.  I’m over him.”  All lies.  Mesothulas would have thought Prowl to be a better liar than this.  Perhaps there was something he wasn't so good at after all.

For the first time, Prowl returned his attention to Mesothulas, at last aware of the scant distance between them.  Mesothulas’s spark was racing; he could have stayed forever, trapped beneath that beautiful, blue gaze.  He wanted to step closer, to crawl into Prowl’s lap, to hold him in his arms, to taste those delicate lips.

That all would have been _wildly_ inappropriate!  Perhaps Mesothulas really _was_ lonely.  But he could feel the uncertain flicker of desire in Prowl’s field.  And at this range, there was no way Prowl could miss Mesothulas’s own longing.  All he had to do was consent.  One word, and Mesothulas would be his, and that Tumbler, whoever he was, could be nothing more than a distant memory.

But Prowl didn’t.

He rose to his feet, and Mesothulas scrambled backwards, to give him room to move, though not so much as to be out of reach.  He kept alive the barest hope that Prowl would pull him in closer, claim his body, as he had done his life and soul.

“I will be missed if I stay too long, I’m afraid,” he said, his voice strained with regret.  Regret was good.  It meant Prowl wanted him too.  Right?

“I understand, Sir!  I will get you those schematics and see you out.”

“Thank you Mesothulas.  I know I can always count on you to anticipate my needs.”

If there was any deeper meaning to those words, it went unsaid.  With the schematics in hand, and his armor replaced, Prowl left, just as suddenly as he’d come, and as always, Mesothulas remained, waiting faithfully for the inevitable day when he returned.


	5. Reprieve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl knows it's wrong, but Mesothulas makes it feel so right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not explicit yet, but we're getting there. Look out for the inevitable rating change within the next few chapters.

Prowl should have been happy.  The Overmind Protocol was a success.  Mesothulas had developed a procedure that allowed Prowl the ability to override the will of a target bot, and replace it with his own.  Admittedly, a targeted bot needed to undergo extensive surgery to open their mind to such an invasion, but that was easily enough arranged.  Naturally, he hadn't told Optimus about it.

He had stopped telling Optimus about his projects long ago.  At some point, the two had come to an unspoken agreement – Optimus would avert his eyes, so long as Prowl kept his more unsavory projects out of his sight.  He got results, and Optimus got to keep the idea that he was still a force for good – it was win-win.  Or at least, it should have been.  Prowl wasn't feeling incredibly victorious at the moment.

He felt sick.  It was foolish.  Mesothulas’s newest invention would prove invaluable to the cause – a more direct means of control than Shadowplay.  Prowl would have full power over the enactment of his strategies, disallowing maverick heroics, or stubborn emotions from jeopardizing a mission.  And knowing the mindset of the average Autobot, disobedience on the part of his foot soldiers was estimated to account for seventy-six percent of all failed strategies.  The Overmind Protocol was a necessary evil.

And yet, Optimus’s words continued to haunt him.  This project was a violation of the worst kind, one that terrified Prowl right down to the core of his spark.  He thrived on control; the thought of giving over his mind to an outside influence haunted his dreams as he slept, crept into the back of his mind the moment he let his guard down, poking and prodding at his sensibilities, leaving him an anxious wreck.

No one was going to use it against him.  That was the point.  The Overmind Protocol existed so that _Prowl_ could force his will onto others, not the reverse.  But somewhere deep within him, a spark of empathy protested with all of its might.  This was wrong.  What gave him the right to overwrite another bot’s personality?

“What’s wrong?” Mesothulas asked, his face inches away.  When had he gotten so close?  “You look a little pale.”

“I’m always pale,” Prowl said, turning aside to brush his concerned apprentice off.  He only half-expected Mesothulas to persist, ducking under a doorwing to move in close again.  He brushed the back of his hand against Prowl’s brow, an act that quite honestly made no sense.  “What are you doing?”

“Checking your core temperature,” Mesothulas explained.  “I picked this up from studying Nebulons.  It’s surprisingly effective.”

Prowl had his doubts as to the effectiveness of organic medical procedures on mechanical beings, but he kept them to himself.  Mesothulas was the scientist, after all, even if his fascination with organic creatures did strike Prowl as a little unsettling.  But his core temperature was not the issue.  “I’m fine, Mesothulas.  There is nothing wrong with my frame.”

“And don’t I know it?” Mesothulas laughed.  What was that about?  “But you really aren’t looking well.  Perhaps you ought to take a seat?  I’ll warm you up some high grade, and you can tell me all about it.”  He was scurrying off towards the energon storage before Prowl had the chance to protest.  And why would he want to?  Pride was one thing, but truth be told, deep down, he enjoyed the pampering.  He loved the way Mesothulas doted over him, hung off his every word, worshipped the ground he walked on.  It wasn’t the healthiest of relationships, but Prowl couldn’t help his grateful spark.  He wasn’t a well-liked mech; it didn’t take a genius to figure that out.  The bubbly affection of a sycophantic madmech was Prowl’s drug, kept him going when the rest of the universe turned its back on him.  No matter how much of a monster he became, so long as he had the praise of a single bot, he could find the will to keep fighting for the greater good, even if he had to sell his soul to do so.

“Here you are!”  Mesothulas thrust the steaming cube into Prowl’s passive hands.  He didn’t need to be prompted to take a sip.  High grade was a rare luxury in the war, one that Mesothulas carried in no short supply.  And the warmth of it flowed through Prowl’s lines, filling him with tranquil confidence.  He was alright.  Everything was going to be alright.

“Would you like to talk about it?” Mesothulas asked, slipping onto the seat beside Prowl, watching him drink with wide-eyed concern that did as much to comfort him as the high grade.

“No,” Prowl said as he lowered the cube from his lips.  He tried to ignore Mesothulas’s stare.  He was an enabler.  Prowl couldn’t trust that the mech would be able to keep him from crossing the line, from becoming the monster he feared he was, should it come to that.  And that was what he needed, more than anything else.

But in the absence of a moral compass, reassurance would do.

“Why do you put up with me?” he asked.  It was strange to speak with such honesty.  For a moment, Prowl eyed the high grade, wondering if Mesothulas had put something in it to loosen him up.  Or perhaps his tolerance had deteriorated over the cycles since he’d last indulged.  Surely it couldn’t be that he found the other’s presence a comfort.  

Surely . . .

“‘Put up with?’” Mesothulas repeated with a laugh.  “Oh, no no no!  I don’t ‘put up with’ anything, Prowl!  I know what it must seem like to you – a young and impressionable mech, half a step above disposable caste, no prospects, rescued by you and forced underground to perform in morally questionable experiments.”  Prowl cringed at the honesty of the statement.  When put like that, his actions really _were_ dubious.  “But I promise you, Prowl, you are the best thing that’s ever happened to me!

“You’ve given me the chance to live my dreams!  You’re my inspiration!  You are _amazing_ – so smart, so good at seeing the big picture, even when no one else will.  I know how much it hurts you sometimes.  I know your allies refuse to see your genius.  I can imagine the cruel names they call you, the wicked things they whisper when they think you’re not listening, which is silly, because you’re _always_ listening!  But they aren’t the ones who are going to win this war.  That is all on _you_!  And I’m going to help you do it!

“So don’t you dare fret, Prowl.  And don’t feel guilty!  You’ve given me everything – so much more than what I ever could have had otherwise.  You are my savior, the light of my world.  And it would not be a lie to say that I love you – I love everything you are, everything you stand for, everything that those ignorant fools who are afraid to get their hands dirty despise.  You are the perfect mech, Prowl, and I will not allow anybody to convince you otherwise!”

At some point during his confession, his hand had slipped atop Prowl’s, and he had leaned in close, nuzzling his helm against Prowl’s shoulder.  Such forward actions were not unusual for Mesothulas, but in light of his words, they had taken on a whole new meaning.  

Mesothulas claimed to love him.  Was that a general sort of love, or something more intimate?  He never could tell with a mech so exuberant.  

It had been so long since anyone had uttered those words to him – not since he and Tumbler had gone their separate ways; it still stung, even after all these years.  Sure, Prowl had taken other partners in the time since.  But relationships had always been a tool for him, a way to maneuver his way into the position he needed to be in.  He’d promised himself that there would never be another Tumbler, not for him.

And Mesothulas was no Tumbler; that much was clear.  Tumbler had been smart, confident, well-adjusted.  They had been equals, partners – Tumbler made up for Prowl’s flaws with dry wit, by being easily likable, down to earth, and Prowl in turn, had been Tumbler’s opposite and equal all in one.  With Mesothulas, it was different.  Prowl felt more a master than a partner, with Mesothulas his willing slave.  

They never could have worked out, never would have had a meaningful relationship – that happily ever after, the post-war domestic bliss that Prowl longed to return to.  But he was desperate, he was lonely, filled with rage, ineptitude, and self-loathing.  And Mesothulas, damn him to the Pit for it, was the only one willing to stand at his side, willing to see the same future that Prowl saw.  And in his despair, it was the only thing Prowl needed.

He knew he shouldn’t have been encouraging the infatuation.  Mesothulas was not a stable mech.  He was too young, too inexperienced, too emotionally vulnerable.  But for all that the mech praised his ability to see the big picture, Prowl averted his eyes just once.  He needed this – this moment of physical comfort in another mech.

“Mesothulas,” he said, his voice far softer than he’d intended.

“Yes?”

Prowl shifted his position, turning towards that small, eager mech, lifted that sharp chin in his hands, and moved in close, planting a kiss on his mouthplate.

Mesothulas’s optics shone bright, and he pulled back, just enough to allow the mask to retract, before moving back in for a proper kiss, deep, hungry, passionate.  Prowl wasn’t sure how long it lasted, but by the time he pulled away, he’d managed to angle himself over Mesothulas, one hand stroking a line down his jaw, while the other was tightly entwined with Mesothulas’s own.  

He had never seen Mesothulas so happy before, melting into Prowl’s presence, his body pliable – clay to be molded to Prowl’s will.  It was dangerous, it was cathartic, it was beautiful.  He couldn’t have this; it was wrong.  Once he went there, he would never be able to go back.

One more soft kiss on the tip of Mesothulas’s nose, then he pulled away.  “Thank you,” he said.  “For standing by me.  For always knowing what to say.  I needed this today.  I needed you.”

But instead of moving forward, allowing himself to claim that ever-so-willing body, he stood up, disentangling the pair.  “I should go,” he said, flicking his doorwings, as though shaking off dust.  There was no dust down here, however.

Mesothulas said nothing in response, his face burning pink, frame trembling, optics wide and vulnerable.  He’d likely never been so close to another mech before.  Prowl had to leave before he did anything else he’d regret.

“I will return within the month.  Please continue to provide updates on the Overmind Protocol for me.”

“O-of course, Sir,” Mesothulas stuttered.

With no further word, Prowl turned on his heel and marched off down the corridor, alone, though he could feel those intense, eager optics on his retreating back, all the way to the armor storage, watching as he dressed up, and ventured into the radiation moat and out of that underground hellhole, where bad ideas went to die.

Primus, what had he done?

 


	6. Teach Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mesothulas is prepared to offer Prowl anything to make him happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're explicit now, yo.

Prowl was becoming unpredictable.  This in itself was fascinating; everything about Prowl was.  Mesothulas had come to quite fancy himself an expert on the subject, but Prowl’s recent behavior (Mesothulas shuddered at the memory of those warm lips on his own) was erratic, extreme, and even uncharacteristic.  He was breaking.  Anyone could have seen it; his allies on the surface were either fools or sadists to allow him to reach such a state.

But Mesothulas was neither.  Mesothulas was a scientist, grateful, tender, full of love and an urge, a desire, a  _ longing _ to see Prowl happy.  It was what the mech deserved, for all he’d brought with him  – a life Mesothulas never could have conceived of otherwise.

He didn’t know how the war was progressing, not exactly.  Prowl’s reports aside, he had no contact with the surface.  Nobody knew he was down here, but the silence ran both ways.  Still, never let it be said that Mesothulas wasn’t a savvy mech.  Prowl could not be bothered to hold his hand through each battle, every city gained, the polities destroyed, the lives lost.  It was up to Mesothulas to read his glorious leader, and to anticipate his needs from the behavior he observed.

When Prowl’s plans succeeded, he was happy, offering compliments, allowing Mesothulas’s desperate little touches  – brushing against his doorwings as he scurried by, allowing his hands to linger too long as he offered Prowl his energon, tolerating the poking and pawing and need for contact; he was winning, and it was in-part because of Mesothulas.  Prowl was his reward for a job well done.

When Prowl’s plans failed, he wouldn’t come at all.  For months, sometimes  _ years _ at a time he would disappear; Mesothulas figured he was busy trying to compensate for the blunders of his allies.  He would be back underground once everything up top sorted itself out.  It always did.  Never for a moment did Mesothulas fear that the day would come that Prowl would never come back.  Mesothulas was too important; Prowl needed him.

Of course, Prowl could not always be happy or absent.  There would come the times when he’d arrive in Mesothulas’s lair, terse, stiff, irritable.  He would brush off Mesothulas’s touches, avoid making eye contact, keep to himself, forbid himself indulgences.  Everything was business, business, business.  That cold neutrality, the wall he built between himself and Mesothulas, between himself and his soul, was the red hot warning flare that signalled he was falling apart.

It happened every so often, cyclical; Mesothulas could practically predict it.  Prowl was happy, Prowl was gone, Prowl was happy, Prowl was gone, Prowl was guilt-ridden, self-loathing, and miserable, Prowl was gone, Prowl was happy.  But never before had his downswing presented itself in such a drastic way, never before had he jeopardized his relationship with Mesothulas for a moment of . . . who knew?  Not pleasure.  That kiss had been far too chaste for that.  Release perhaps?  Or maybe there was something darker at play.

One thing was certain: that kiss had nothing to do with Mesothulas.

Which was a damn shame, because it was Mesothulas’s most cherished memory, apart from perhaps his first meeting with Prowl.  For so long, he had sat at the feet of his savior, begging for scraps of attention, and at last, he’d gotten a taste of his reward.  Prowl had looked at him, had touched him  – willingly  –  had granted him the contact that his body so clearly begged for.  And he wanted more.

The kiss, had perhaps been Prowl’s first mistake.  It changed the playing field; Mesothulas was no longer content to sit at Prowl’s feet any longer.  He wanted more; he’d tasted it  – the desperation in Prowl for the same sort of contact.  Prowl needed someone who understood him, who supported him, who loved him, cared for him, gave him validation, encouragement, inspiration.  Mesothulas could be that mech; Prowl had told him as much in one careless, desperate gesture.

~~~

Prowl was on the downswing again.  He was sitting at the same bench, a blank look in his optics as he sipped at the warm highgrade Mesothulas had brought for him.  He was silent, slumped, broken  – not one word had been uttered as to the cause of his current state of mind, but Mesothulas didn’t need to ask.  Prowl’s conscience was catching up to him as it always did.

It killed him to see Prowl in such a state, but if his plan worked, he wouldn’t have to.  He sat down beside that poor, miserable mech, tentatively, ready to be shooed away at a moment’s notice.  Prowl didn’t bother, he barely seemed to notice Mesothulas’s presence at all.

“Prowl?” he ventured, placing a shy hand on Prowl’s broad shoulder.  Prowl didn’t react.  “Prowl, whatever they said, whatever they did?  Just remember that you’re doing the right thing.” 

Prowl flicked a doorwing, but didn’t shake off Mesothulas’s hand.  Mustering up all of his courage, he lifted Prowl’s arm, limp and unresisting, and squeezed beneath it, until it hung around his shoulders.  Prowl cast a curious glance at him from the side of his optic, but remained unmoving.

“Wars aren’t won by being nice and playing by the rules.  The Decepticons know this, but I’m not sure your Autobots do.  Who cares about honor?  Who cares about morals?  Live by those, and maybe you’ll get respect, but what good is respect to a corpse?”  He let a hand rest against Prowl’s thigh, squeezing lightly.  Prowl’s optics locked to the hand, silent, calculating.

“At the end of the day, it’s about pragmatism.  It’s about finding your enemies’ weakness, and exploiting the scrap out of it.  It’s about winning, no matter the cost.  I always respected your ability to see this, Prowl.  You’re a genius!  And I know I’ve said it before, but  _ you _ are the one who is going to win this war, no matter what your allies think about you.  You are brave, you are cunning, and you are unstoppable!”

He shifted his position, crawling across Prowl’s lap, and reaching upward, to plant a kiss on Prowl’s lips.  This time, Prowl  _ did _ react, his arms wrapping around Mesothulas’s shoulder wheels and pulling him in close, until their frames ground against one another.  Mesothulas hadn’t expected such a forward action, but he was glad for it.

“Prowl,” he uttered weakly.  Prowl gazed down at him, his blue optics piercing, cold, calculating, and so, so beautiful.  What was he thinking, Mesothulas wondered, behind those wonderful optics.  “Know that no matter what happens, I am behind you.  I am here for you.  I am yours, to use as you see fit.”  In one more bold move, he ground his hips against Prowl’s panel.  Prowl had been receptive thus far, Mesothulas was  _ mostly _ confident that he wouldn’t be scared off now.  At least, he hoped so.  He wasn’t ready to lose the mech who had given him the world.

“Anything you want from me Prowl, all you need to is say the word, and it’s all yours.”

Suddenly, the world turned upside down.  Prowl had thrown him off  – no, no, no!  He’d made a mistake!  How could he have misjudged the situation so poorly?!  He couldn’t  – he  _ couldn’t _ lose Prowl!  Prowl was his everything!  Prowl was his  _ only _ thing!  No one else knew about him!  If he scared Prowl away, what would happen to him down here?

But Prowl didn’t run away.  Mesothulas was flat on his back, lying on the cold hard ground, and Prowl was atop his shivering frame, mouthing at his lips, his jaw, his throat, enthusiastic hands exploring every inch of his frame with a feral glee.  

“P-Prowl,” he sighed.  He hadn’t expected interface to feel like this.  He knew about it, of course, in the textbook sense.  He knew what went where, knew that the wetness he felt behind his panel was his body’s response to the stimulation, to give Prowl easier passage, should he choose to spike him.  He knew that the strain in his own spike was its desperate plea for release, to be allowed to pressurize and penetrate its partner.  He knew that, biologically, none of this had any purpose, not like it did in organic creatures, save for pleasure.  It was an inefficient waste of resources, but the meaning of such a gesture, the sense of connection, the sheer, unhindered sensation was more than he could have possibly imagined.  He moaned, arching his back, to give Prowl better access.

Prowl’s fingers were deft, exploring Mesothulas’s frame with an expert precision.  He was surely experienced; he knew Mesothulas’s frame so well, despite never having touched it before.  He knew where to dig his fingers in to have Mesothulas wailing for more, knew where to let light touches ghost over his plating, to make the heat pool in Mesothulas’s gut, knew where to inflict pain, and where to inflict pleasure.  Neither mech had even retracted his panel yet, and already, Mesothulas was a moaning, sobbing wreck at Prowl’s feet.  He may well overload without any penetration at all.

Primus, Prowl was good at this.

“Open for me,” he said at last, his voice gruff, laced in static.  It seemed that he was not unaffected by Mesothulas’s enthusiastic reactiveness.  That was a good sign, wasn’t it?

Mesothulas’s panels shot open, his thin, virgin spike pressurizing instantly, casting a soft green glow over his frame from the biolights that lined it.  It was a pretty spike, wasn’t it?  Likewise, the lubricants that had pooled up within his valve leaked freely now, spilling down his thighs and onto the floor.

“You really are eager,” Prowl smiled, gazing down at Mesothulas’s newly-exposed array.

“Of  _ course _ I am,” he choked.  “I’ve wanted this for  – oh, I don’t know, a long time!  I want  _ you _ Prowl!  I want to be close to you!  I want to make you happy, oh Primus, do I want to make you happy!”

Prowl silenced him with one more wet, hungry kiss, before sliding down Mesothulas’s body.  At first, Mesothulas lamented the cold lack of Prowl above him, but his sorrow was short lived.  Perfect lips wrapped around his spike, easily taking its full length into that warm, waiting mouth, while those blunt, skilled fingers found his valve, dipping into the inviting wetness, scissoring him open, pressing into sensitive, never-touched nodes, leaving him writhing and moaning.

“P-Prowl!” he shrieked, bucking his hips despite himself.  Prowl’s free hand moved to push him down, hold him in place as he moved up and down his length, as his fingers slid in and out of his valve.  Was it any wonder that Mesothulas overloaded so quickly?

The world turned white, his body, far away, screaming as the electricity wracked his frame, causing it to convulse, no matter how Prowl tried to hold him in place.  The sparks shot from his optics, his seams, biolights, every opening in his frame, marring the perfect, pure whiteness of Prowl’s paintjob with unsightly black burns.  He couldn’t muster up the energy to care.

His entire frame slumped against the floor, spent and still twitching as Prowl finally freed himself from Mesothulas’s spike, wiping his solvent-wet lips with the back of his clean hand.  The mischievous look in his optics said that he was anything but satisfied.  

He moved up Mesothulas’s drained frame, planting another kiss on his unresponsive lips.  It tasted different this time, acidic, and strangely musty.  That must have been the taste of himself.  The thought was nearly enough to breathe life back into his drained frame.  As it was, he only managed to weakly return Prowl’s kiss, too exhausted to so much as lift his arms, to hold on to Prowl’s body, to return some of the pleasure that he’d been gifted.

“You really are beautiful,” Prowl muttered with cold indifference, as though stating facts.  Again, Mesothulas felt a thrill of pleasure jolt through his spent frame.  “Hold on, just a little longer.”

Mesothulas heard the whirr of shifting gears; Prowl had opened his own array at last.  His spike was not quite visible with their current positions  –  a shame.  Mesothulas really wanted to take it in his mouth, just as Prowl had done for him.  But Prowl had other ideas.

He shifted his position, one hand holding Mesothulas in place, while the other must have been guiding his own spike.  He slid into Mesothulas’s valve with relative ease.  Still, despite Prowl’s earlier efforts to loosen him up, a spike was still quite a bit more robust than the fingers had been, and the intensity of the overload had made his frame less receptive to pleasure.

But this was  _ Prowl _ .  Prowl deserved whatever he wanted!  He would have Mesothulas, and the weakness of his own frame would not get in the way of that.  He forced the calipers to relax, tried his best to keep the tension from his frame, to allow Prowl to slide into him all the way.  It was nice.  A bit uncomfortable, but they were connected, closer than they ever had been in the past.  It was beautiful, perfect, the way things were meant to be.

There.   _ There _ was the thrill of pleasure Mesothulas had been looking for.  His head lulled to the side with a weak moan, as Prowl began to drive into him with more force.  It was light at first, but grew progressively more and more violent with each passing moment.  Prowl’s fingers, which had so thoroughly mapped his body before, now sought out each of those sensitive pain points, digging in with all their might.  One hand pressed down on his exposed throat cabling, limiting the flow of energon to his brain module, making him see stars, with his processor already under such duress.

Mesothulas’s legs began to kick out, despite himself, to ease this sudden discomfort, no matter how much he convinced himself he wanted it.  A low whine escaped his restricted vocaliser, and he at last mustered enough energy to get his arms to move.  But rather than shove Prowl off, he wrapped them around the back of Prowl’s neck, and pulled him closer.  

Prowl was rough, violent.  Maybe this was just how he got off.  Or maybe he was letting out an entire war’s worth of pent up aggression.  Whatever it was, Mesothulas was determined to enjoy it.  He belonged to Prowl.  He would be whatever Prowl needed.  It was the least he could do in exchange for what he’d been given.

Prowl overloaded with a surprisingly mournful sob, his hips uncontrollably jerking into Mesothulas again and again in a succession of shallow, but less painful thrusts, before he at last slumped forward, crushing Mesothulas beneath his limp frame.  Mesothulas did not overload again, but that was fine.  He didn’t need physical pleasure.  Not when he had Prowl right here, closer than he’d ever dared to dream.

His trembling hands worked their way up and down Prowl’s back and doorwings in soft, reassuring touches.   _ I’m here.  You did well, Prowl.  I’m here, and I’m happy.  I love you. _

Minutes passed before Prowl mustered up the energy to move.  He propped himself up on his arms, dislodging Mesothulas’s hands and looking down for the first time.  He didn’t look happy.  His optics were cold and distant as they were before, his doorwings twitched, held aloft in a position of distress, his mouth parted, as his cold indifference turned to comprehension.

He scrambled away, crawling to his feet, and turning his back on Mesothulas, who still remained a strutless puddle on the floor.

“Prowl?” he called out, exhausted, yet worried.

“I  – I’m sorry.  I  – I shouldn’t have done that.”

Mesothulas forced himself to his hands and knees, about as close to standing as he was going to muster at this point.  “It’s alright Prowl, really.  You were great!  I  – you didn’t hurt me, if that’s what you’re worried about.  I’m really happy right now.  You were brilliant!  I couldn’t have asked for a better first time!”

Prowl’s doorwings stiffened, his fists clenched.  He did not turn around.

“Prowl?” Mesothulas pressed.  “Are you okay?  Did I do something wrong?  Please, let’s talk about this.  I want you to be happy.  That’s  _ all _ I want.”

Prowl shook his head.  “I shouldn’t have done that.  I’m sorry.  I’ll  – I’ll have your next assignment soon.  I just  – I need to go.”  And without leaving Mesothulas the opportunity to protest, he took off, down the corridor and off towards the radiation moat, leaving poor Mesothulas, abandoned and weak on the floor.

What had that been?  What had he done wrong?  Why was Prowl still sad?  He shouldn’t have been!  He had Mesothulas!  What more did he need?

On feeble arms, Mesothulas crawled across the floor to the fuel storage, and grabbed a cube of energon, not bothering to heat it up before downing the thing.  He gingerly took a seat, leaning against the cupboard and staring blankly at the black ceiling.  

Perhaps Prowl was right.  Perhaps interfacing  _ had _ been a mistake.  Mesothulas had never felt so far from the mech he loved the most, despite how much they had just shared . . . 

He slumped forward, resting his helm on his knees.

Surely, there had to be a way to fix this.  He was Mesothulas, the problem solver.  If anyone could make Prowl happy, it was him!

He forced the fear from his head that maybe, there was no making Prowl happy.  

He was the mech that made the impossible possible!  He would get what he wanted, no matter the cost.  Prowl would be happy, they would be together, the war would be over, and all would be well  – this he swore to himself.  It was all so preposterous, and maybe he was a little crazy for thinking it, but the situation was truly funny.  Oh, how little about Prowl he’d understood.  He wouldn’t fall for that trap again.  He was a wiser mech now, a genius, and phenomenal at getting the things he wanted.  His shoulders began to shake, his damaged vocaliser hissed static, and then, he let out a stream of laughter, long, manic, and overwhelmed with a scheming glee, that echoed off the dark, empty walls of his prison.  

Prowl would be his.  There was no doubt about it.

 


	7. Dirty Little Secret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl is breaking down. He needs to end this relationship, before it passes the point of no return.

He’d made a mistake, many in fact, starting with recruiting Mesothulas in the first place.  But that was done, and so too was this.  He had slept with him.  He knew it was a bad idea at the time, but he’d been so desperate for contact, for praise, for _someone_ to tell him that he was in the right, after hearing for so long, from so many mechs, all of his failings.  And Mesothulas had been there, doing everything right.

It was wrong.  Mesothulas was young.  Mesothulas was naïve.  He would have done anything to make Prowl happy.  But Prowl didn’t love him, and he didn’t want him.  Truth be told, in his mind, Mesothulas had come to symbolize everything that Prowl hated about himself.  He was ruthless, calculating, and every so willing to sacrifice whomever he needed to in order to achieve even a small victory.  Mesothulas was Prowl’s dirty little secret, hidden so that nobody would have to know, just how truly disgusting Prowl was.

And when it came down to it, he _could_ pin it all on Mesothulas.  Lie to himself and say that the sycophant was simply beyond helping, that he was an unashamed psychopath, that it was inevitable that he would do such wicked deeds, and always had been.  Other mechs may even believe him, but it didn’t change the truth.  Prowl had taken this promising, if not anti-social young mech, isolated him from all Cybertronian contact, molded him into a master weapon smith, and then slept with him in a moment of desperation.

Primus, he truly was despicable.

Despite knowing this, however, Prowl kept right on going back.  There was a precedent for interface now.  It had happened once; as far as Mesothulas was concerned, they were proper lovers by this point.  Prowl shouldn’t have humored the notion, but he didn’t stop it.  He would allow himself to wallow in his own vile nature a little while longer.  He needed the contact, the reassurance that Mesothulas provided, consequences be damned.

He pulled out from his one-time lover's body, vents hissing steam.  Mesothulas laid beneath him, still writhing this way and that in his post-overload bliss.  It was a beautiful sight.  Prowl had done that.  He had been solely responsible for the pleasure of another mech, this mech that needed him so dearly.  This wretched mech that had given himself over mind, body, and soul, who allowed Prowl to be the monster he was.  It was in that moment, that Prowl felt every doubt spring forth, barrage his brain until he could no longer hold back the dam.

“I hate you,” he whispered, crawling off of Mesothulas and struggling back to his feet.  The effect on his partner was instant.

“W-what was that?”

Prowl chanced a glance at the floor; Mesothulas had scrambled to his hands and knees, his optics wide and terrified.  It was nearly worth regretting his words.  He turned away, unable to stomach that pitiful expression a moment longer.  “I said that I hate you.”  

“You don’t,” Mesothulas protested, with far more confidence than he ought to have had.  How could he possibly know what Prowl was thinking, when even Prowl himself had difficulty understanding his emotions?  “You can’t,” he continued.  “You’re the one who made me.  Everything I am is defined by you.  When you look at me, you see a reflection of the one that you truly hate.”

Was that true?  It probably was.  Mesothulas was very astute.  But Prowl was not so easily won over.  “Perhaps, yes.  But you – you enable the worst of me.  I can never be better than I am, so long as I keep coming back to you.”

Mesothulas shook his head frantically, scrambling to his feet and clinging to Prowl’s arm.  “You’re wrong, Prowl!” he cried.  “You’re wrong!  You’re so incredibly wrong!  Never in my life have I ever seen you so wrong before!  I know how much you hate yourself, hate all of the terrible things you do!  It’s because you’re a good mech!  It’s because you know that the things you’re doing are wrong and objectively bad, but that doesn’t matter!  You’re not a bad mech, Prowl!  You’re better than everyone else, because you know what truly matters!  Because you know that sometimes you have to do bad things for the greater good!  You willingly sacrifice your own morality and sanity so that your worthless allies may prevail!  You are the most selfless, noble mech there is!  Please, Prowl!  Please, stop being so hard on yourself!”

Mesothulas buried his face in Prowl’s arm, trembling, terrified.  Of course he was afraid.  He’d spent more than half his life down here in this hellish prison.  Prowl was all he had; without Prowl, he was nothing.  Without Prowl, he had thrown his life away, had engaged in the same immoral deeds, for no reason at all.  Mesothulas was not a healthy mech by any stretch of the imagination, but his instability had only been exacerbated by Prowl’s actions.  He was right; he was Prowl’s sin, given a life and a face.  Prowl didn’t hate Mesothulas.  He hated what Mesothulas’s existence implied about himself.

The weight he carried was too heavy.  He was too tired.  This was all too much.  His legs gave out, sending both himself and Mesothulas collapsing back to the ground.  Mesothulas squeaked in pain, but did not let go of Prowl’s arm.

“Mesothulas,” he said, trying with no avail to shake the clinging mech free.  He shouldn’t have bothered.  Who had suffered more at his hand than his dirty little secret?  At least his other victims had been allowed to die.  Mesothulas didn’t have that luxury.  He was too important to the cause to put down.

_Primus, I truly am a monster._

“I’m sorry, Mesothulas,” he muttered, trying again to reclaim his hand.  He had to get out of here, before he hurt the poor kid any more than he already had.  “I didn’t mean what I said.  You’re right; it’s not you that I hate.  It is myself.  I am so sorry for hurting you, Mesothulas.  I’m sorry for everything that I’ve done to you.  You’ve devoted your life to me, given up your freedom for me, and I can’t even bring myself to pay you back in kind.  Instead I insult you, I take advantage of you, I hurt you further, drive you mad.  I’m so sorry,” he at last broke down, sobbing.  “Primus, I’m sorry!”

It took his own show of weakness to dislodge the trembling two-wheeler.  Mesothulas crawled into Prowl’s lap, lifted his chin, his Decepticon red optics gazing passionately into Prowl’s Autobot blue.  He wanted to pull away, to leave this laboratory, cross the radiation moat, and never come back.  But he couldn’t.  The guilt of condemning this poor, starry-eyed kid to an isolated death would have been too much to bear.  When Mesothulas leaned in, taking Prowl’s mouth in his own, and kissed him again and again, spilling little loving assurances in between, Prowl did not resist.

“Don’t say such things!”  “You have nothing to apologize for!”  “I love you, Prowl!”  “I love who you’ve made me!”  “Please, don’t apologize!”  “I love you, Prowl!”  “I love you enough for the both of us!”  “I love you!”  “I love you!”

The admissions only served to exacerbate his own guilt.  He never could have returned the love of this madmech.  He never could have been the godlike figure Mesothulas saw him as.  Mesothulas thought that he knew Prowl, but he only saw a fraction of the picture.  He only saw Prowl when Prowl needed something – a weapon, a confidant, a release.  Prowl was despicable.  He should not have been allowed to exist.  Primus, what was wrong with him?

“Mesothulas,” he muttered, causing the barrage of praise and kisses to stop.  Mesothulas pulled back, staring into Prowl’s eyes.  “I have a favor to ask of you.”

“What is it, Prowl?  Whatever you need, I am here for you!  I will always be here for you!  No matter what anyone else says or does, you will always have _me_!”

And that was the problem, wasn’t it?  “I want a means of determining guilt, for use in Trypticon’s trials against Autobot criminals and Decepticon prisoners.  It will help us to better determine the severity of the punishments we shall inflict.”  

_What sort of punishment do_ I _deserve?  Am I truly so vile as I believe, or do Mesothulas’s words have any merit beyond the ramblings of a sycophant?_

Mesothulas frowned before snapping his mask back in place.  “Of course, Prowl!  I will have it ready for you by your next visit!  I promise you this!”  He leaned in close, nuzzling his helm beneath Prowl’s chin.  “But don’t get any fancy ideas to use it on yourself.  You don’t need any outside influence to determine your guilt.  No matter what a computer says, you are the best mech I’ve ever met.  The Autobots are lucky to have you.”

“Thank you Mesothulas.  I promise, I won’t use it on myself.”  Both mechs knew it was an empty promise, but Mesothulas didn’t protest.  Instead, he pushed his weight into Prowl, until he fell back on the floor, with that light frame atop his chest.  Prowl didn’t have the spark to move him; he looked so peaceful up there, so innocent and content.  For just tonight, Prowl would indulge in the fantasy.  Mesothulas deserved that much.

It was the least he could do to alleviate the guilt of the thoughts in the back of his mind, the thoughts that told him that Mesothulas had to go, for the sake of the greater good.

 


	8. Biology

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mesothulas knows he's losing Prowl, but he won't let go without a fight.

Their relationship was in peril – that much was clear to Mesothulas.  Prowl was slipping away, allowing his guilt to consume him.  If he was allowed to fall any farther, there would be no hope of saving him.  He would leave, and Mesothulas would be . . . he didn’t know.  Death nearly sounded like the preferable fate.  Anything would be better than being abandoned down here, alone, to live out the rest of his days.  He could escape, of course, but what would be the point?  There was no reason to live without the inspiration Prowl afforded him.

Mesothulas didn’t want to be alone.  He’d worked too hard to allow such a thing to happen.  He was Prowl’s best, his brightest, his pet project, who always delivered, who always did everything right, who filled Prowl’s head with all the words he needed to hear, at the exact moment he needed to hear them.  He’d worked hard, done everything he could, had given Prowl the world and more.  Why then, did Prowl not love him back?  

_"I hate you."_

Mesothulas had dismissed the words at the time, but they stung far more than he would have liked to admit.  Prowl’s word was law.  He never lied.  He’d said he hated Mesothulas, and he’d meant it.  His own self-hatred was inconsequential.  Prowl was falling apart, losing himself in his own self-loathing, and Mesothulas too, was at the end of his rope.  He needed a way to save Prowl from himself, to bring him back to Mesothulas, to truly open his eyes to the happiness they could share, if he would only accept it.

Mesothulas had already given him everything he could have wanted.  Everything he’d ever asked for.  He’d given his life, his very soul, but it wasn’t enough to make Prowl stay.  Prowl was far too volatile a mech to be won over so easily; it was one of the many reasons why Mesothulas loved him.  But how, then?  How could he make Prowl stay?  How could he transform those pesky feelings of hatred into feelings of love?  How could he earn the happily ever after he deserved?

He just didn’t know . . .

~~~

It had been over a year since Prowl’s last visit, and Mesothulas was panicking.  It wasn’t unheard of for him to be gone for so long, but in light of their last encounter, he was finding it increasingly difficult to chalk the absence up to a busy schedule.  Prowl was in a terrible state of mind; he’d either gotten himself hurt, whether intentionally or through negligence – which was a terrible thought on its own – but even worse was the notion that Prowl was intentionally avoiding him.

What would Mesothulas do if Prowl never came back?  How long should he wait for him?  Until he ran out of supplies?  Until starvation pushed him out?  He couldn’t think like that, couldn’t dwell on the possibility that their most recent encounter had also been their last.

He’d long since finished his prototype for the Aequitas machine – the means of determining guilt that Prowl had requested.  Prowl had to come back.  If he wanted to see the end result of the project, he would return.  And when he did, Mesothulas needed a way to ensure that he would come again.

Interface wasn’t enough.  Unconditional love, praise, and support wasn't enough.  Prowl was a mech ruled by cold logic and burning guilt.  In order to secure his return, Mesothulas would have to take advantage of both.  But what could guilt Prowl into staying, while remaining useful enough to be the edge he needed to win out?

The answer came to him one day, as he poured over one of his data tracks in his library, this one taken from some far-off organic world called Nebulos.  He often studied the tracks to stave off boredom, and he’d always found the organic creatures of alien planets fascinating.  Most mechs saw organics as primitive, inferior beings, disgusting and weak.  Their continued existence came as an accident of nature, and would be snuffed out within a few thousand years.  No organism could match the perfection of the mechanical Cybertronians.

Mesothulas, however, was not most mechs.  How could anyone so easily dismiss the amazing adaptations such creatures employed to survive their environments, overcome their inherent weakness, and, most importantly, propagate their species?  It was that last one in particular, that piqued Mesothulas’s interest.  Cybertronian reproduction was random, increasingly rare, often viewed with religious deference.  For Cybertron, it worked.  Their species was so long-lived, they would have easily overpopulated their planet, had they any further control over the when and how of it.

Organics, however, had all sorts of amazingly creative ways to reproduce.  Of particular interest to him were the Nebulons, who formed insular families – a breeding couple, and several children.  While Cybertron viewed the act of giving life with religious reverence, it was the coupling that Nebulons sanctified.  Relationships on Cybertron were symbolic of the strength of a bond between two mechs, but on Nebulos, they were holy.  Holy, like his own relationship with Prowl ought to have been.

It all came back to life, and it's conception.

What Mesothulas needed, in order to imitate the sort of relationship he needed, was something that he and Prowl had created together, something more sacred than any weapon could have been.  If he could create a new life with Prowl, a super soldier, a son, Prowl would have all the more reason to keep coming back.  He would love their child, in the way he could never love Mesothulas, nor even himself.  The child would be useful to the cause, and abandoning it would be too much guilt for Prowl to bear.

It was a perfect solution.  He would simulate the spark, create a frame, and use the force of his and Prowl’s love to give it life.  The modifications would fill his hours until the day that Prowl returned.  Prowl was going to remain at his side one way or another.  Mesothulas was sure of it!

~~~

Mesothulas next saw Prowl a few months later.  He was cold as he arrived, distant and distressed as usual.  The completion of Aequitas, however, seemed to please him.  For a few minutes, he forgot his mistrust of Mesothulas, he smiled, offered genuine praise, just as he used to do.  All it took was a cube of energon, a few kind words, and the seduction was complete.

Prowl took Mesothulas that night with a gentle passion that had been absent from any of their previous intimate encounters.  It was as though he knew the significance of this coupling, as though he knew what amazing miracles would come of it.  Mesothulas clung to him tightly, offered up his words of love, of pleasure, and a promise that he would show Prowl something truly amazing.

“As always, I look forward to seeing what you come up with,” Prowl panted once they’d finished, two pleasantly sated beings lying side-by-side in the darkness.  

Oh, if only he knew.  


	9. Progeny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl is horrified by Mesothulas's latest project.

Prowl was not looking forward to seeing Mesothulas.  At some point, his business venture had been tainted by pleasure, and then that pleasure, by reality.  He and Mesothulas could not be togther, a fact that Mesothulas either wouldn’t or couldn’t understand.  

Were Prowl a mech ruled solely by his guilt, he would have put that pathetic lunatic out of his misery years ago.  Unfortunately for the both of them, Mesothulas was still useful to the cause.  Autobot enlistment had been dwindling as more and more Cybertronians declared their sides in the conflict  – Autobot, Decepticon, or Neutral.  By his estimate, Decepticons currently outnumbered the Autobots nearly two to one.  He needed to turn neutrals and undecideds to his cause, and he had a feeling Mesothulas would be just the mech for the job.

He arrived in the underground lair, with his door wings held stiff, and an unflappable frown on his lips.  He may have been nervous, but he would never allow Mesothulas to see it.  Weakness would not be tolerated, nor would giving in.  

“Prowl!”  Mesothulas must have heard him come in.  He scurried down the stairs, and began helping Prowl out of his armor with a giddy enthusiasm.  Prowl didn’t think anything of it; Mesothulas was always happy to see him, and it had been a long time.

“Hello Mesothulas,” he said, trying to keep his expression as neutral as possible.  Mesothulas undoubtedly picked up on it, but he did not act out.  “I trust you are well.”

“Oh yes!” he chirped.  “I couldn’t be better.  I’ve been hard at work  – busy, busy, busy!”

“Busy?” Prowl asked.  He hadn’t given Mesothulas any new assignments.  “Busy with what?”

“Oh!”  Though his mouth was obscured by his mask, Prowl had no doubt that Mesothulas was grinning wickedly.  “This and that.  You’ll see soon enough, Prowl.  And I’m sure you’ll love it!”  He flitted around Prowl, grabbing discarded pieces of armor, and hanging them on their hooks, until Prowl was at last freed.  “But tell me, what brings you here today?  What new, impossible weapon would you like me to concoct for you this time?”

“I need a way to increase Autobot enlistment.”

“Enlistment?” Mesothulas repeated, reaching for Prowl’s hand.  Prowl withdrew before he managed to take hold of it, a fact which made Mesothulas wilt, if only for a moment.  He instead moved forward, beckoning Prowl deeper into the lab.  This, Prowl allowed.

“It has slowed drastically of late, but the war rages on, and we grow fewer in number by the day.  There are still plenty of neutrals out there that refuse to pick a side.  If I could find a way to sway them in our favor . . .”

“Or turn them against the Decepticons,” Mesothulas mused.  He led Prowl to the energon storage room, and began digging through the cupboards.

“I suppose,” Prowl nodded, folding his arms, “but the Decepticons have committed atrocity after atrocity by this point.”

“The Autobots too, no doubt.”

Prowl refused to respond to the dig, even if his eyes did narrow in irritation.  “If they haven’t chosen a side by this point, I can’t imagine they’re going to.”

“Hmm.”  Mesothulas pulled out a cube from the cupboard, high-grade by the looks of it.  That was fancy stuff; why was he wasting it now?  “Well, clearly the Decepticons will have to do something objectively unforgivable.”  He offered a cube to Prowl, who took it, hesitantly.

“What’s the occasion?”

Mesothulas giggled in response.  “Oh, you’ll see soon enough.  But for now, let’s talk about your problem.”

Prowl sighed and took a sip of the energon.  If Mesothulas was this excited, then he undoubtedly had something very bad planned, but there was nothing Prowl could do about it.  For a brief moment, he became all too aware that he was trapped down here, miles from civilization with a complete lunatic  – a lunatic who was, to put it lightly, obsessed with him.  Nobody knew he was here.  Should Mesothulas desire it, Prowl may well never leave again.  Would that be so bad?  He eyed Mesothulas.

Mental maladies aside, he was attractive, if not a little on the small side.  Moreover, he was intelligent, a great conversation partner, and most importantly, had no real interest in the war beyond Prowl’s desires.  Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad to stay down here, committed to a sick fantasy for the rest of his life.  Prowl shook his head, dispelling the thought.  

Mesothulas didn’t seem to notice.  “What you need is for the Decepticons to cross the line in the eyes of the neutrals.”

“Or at least appear to,” Prowl mused, downing his cube.  Mesothulas was watching him, pure worship in his wide red optics.

“Oh Prowl, I do so love the way you think!”  He rushed over, and grabbed the empty cube, placing it in the sink, before ushering Prowl to a rather comfortable-looking chair.  Was that foam padding?  Prowl certainly hadn’t given him that.  While Prowl was busy pondering Mesothulas’s choice in decor, the giddy little bot continued.

“Yes, yes!  We could stage some sort of travesty  –  one so horrific that no one could dare remain neutral in the face of it, and pin it all on the Decepticons.”  He began walking towards Prowl; for a second Prowl feared the clingy madmech would try to sit in his lap, but instead, Mesothulas pulled up a second chair to sprawl out in.  “Any suggestions as to how we’ll pull this off?”

Prowl considered this.  “Well, to spur the neutrals into action, we would have to show them that they are not safe  – that the Decepticons  _ will _ come for them as they bury their heads in the sand.”  It had worked for him after all.

“Are there any polities up there that still remain neutral?” Mesothulas posited, rubbing his chin.

“Ah, yes.  Carpessa.  Valvolux.  Uraya, as well as numerous smaller settlements within larger polities.”  Prowl wasn’t certain he liked what Mesothulas was getting at here.  “Though the idea is to recruit the neutrals, not annihilate them.”

“Why not?” Mesothulas shrugged, prompting Prowl to spring from his chair, whirling around to glare down at his smaller companion.

“You can’t be serious!” he snapped, fists and doorwings alike gesturing wildly.  Mesothulas remained surprisingly unperturbed.

“You’re very cute when you’re angry,” he giggled.  

Prowl stiffened, forcing the poise back into his demeanor.  “You were . . . joking?”  Blue eyes narrowed, full lips frowned.  “I don’t approve of your sense of humor, Mesothulas.”

“Oh, it wasn’t a joke.  A dead neutral is better for you than a neutral recruited by the Decepticons.”

“I suppose,” he conceded, after a moment’s hesitation.  “But a neutral enlisting in the Autobots would be best of all.”

“Naturally.”  Mesothulas finished his own drink, then leapt to his feet with quick ease.  “But you need a  _ big _ target to spur a reaction from the people.  A mech will be more willing to throw his life away if he has nothing to lose, don’t you agree?”

“So you think I should stage an attack on one of the polities, and pin it on the Decepticons.”

“Of course!  I’m sure with your penchant for statistics, you can see the success rate of this plan.”

“I foresee a sixty-two percent chance of success,” Prowl frowned.  “I can’t very well be seen going in there myself, which means special ops would have to take care of it.  The Wreckers.”  He shuddered, a sensation that spread all the way to his wingtips.  “I’m not keen on leaving a mission like this in their hands  – they’re not known for discretion, though they are good at following orders, and they don’t ask questions.”  Though for a mission like this, discretion was a must.  He didn’t need the whole team; he just needed someone that could pass as a Decepticon.  A miner perhaps, one who had worked side-by-side with Megatron himself.  Prowl smiled.  

“Actually, let’s make that eighty-six percent.  I’d like you to create a bomb for me that would appear to be made by Decepticons, and which will leave behind just enough shrapnel to place it as a Decepticon attack.  Can you do that for me?”  It was foolish to ask.  Mesothulas could do  _ anything. _

“Oh, absolutely!”  His enthusiasm was real as ever  – more so, even.  Mesothulas had been bubbling with energy from the moment Prowl walked through the door.  The coy way he’d avoided addressing the high grade was further indication that something was up.  What was the secret, and how much of a disaster would it be?

“You certainly are bubbly tonight, aren’t you?” he said with a grin, despite himself.  It was best not to encourage Mesothulas’s affection, but at the same time, he couldn’t deny that it was infectious.

“I am,” Mesothulas agreed, dancing around Prowl.  “Oh Prowl, I’ve tried to contain myself, but there is simply something I just have to show you!”  He reached out, taking Prowl’s hand in his own, and scurrying off down the hall.  

“And what is that?”

“A surprise!  But oh, I think you’ll love him!  It’s impossible not to love him!”

Scrap.  Had Mesothulas invited somebody else down here?  “Him?”

Mesothulas let his mask slip open, a wide grin had spread across his face.  “Oops!” he giggled.  “I admit, I’ve been a bit naughty.”

Prowl was less amused.  He ripped his hand from Mesothulas’s grasp.  “What do you mean, Mesothulas?!  You didn’t go outside, did you?  You couldn’t  – you  _ wouldn’t  _ bring someone back here!”

Mesothulas frowned.  “Oh Prowl, what do you take me for?  Of  _ course _ I didn’t go outside!  You have the armor, remember?  I’m stuck here.”  Prowl had no doubt that Mesothulas could create his own suit of armor should he wish it, but he didn’t say anything.  Instead, he allowed his companion to lead him to a doorway, exactly like every other door in this place, save for the added plate on the outside. ‘Ostaros.’

“Mesothulas, what is this?”

“It’s our son!”

Prowl stared into the room, aghast, baffled, confused.  What he saw was a mech  – no  – a mech-shaped shell, a skeletal frame like those in the cold construction factories, prior to augmentation and coding.  It was a perfectly generic mockery of a Cybertronian, with an empty smile on its unnatural face, and a window on its chest that displayed the creature’s spark.  How had Mesothulas acquired a spark?

“I don’t  – I don’t understand.  What  _ is _ it?”

“Not ‘it,’ ‘ _ he.’”  _ Mesothulas insisted.  “Come in, come in!  Would you like to touch him?  He is, in part, your creation too!”

“What?”  Prowl couldn’t look away.  This mech  – this  _ thing _ was wrong.  It wasn’t forged or cold constructed.  He’d seen cold construction in each of its waves.  Even the MTOs weren’t so empty as this creature.  But as best Prowl could tell, it was alive.  Slowly, the creature looked his way and smiled, though the gesture was meaningless.  This  – ‘son,’ Mesothulas had called it, was designed to do nothing else.

“The last time you were here,” Mesothulas explained, “I managed to isolate the spark energy released in overload, and amplified it with forced duplication  – a very painstaking process, which required using the samples I have on hand to synthesize an energy field resembling that of the Matrix and  – well, I won’t bore you with all the minutia,” he laughed.  “Suffice it to say, body and spark, he is a product of our coupling!  Look!  He recognizes you!”  

Prowl’s optics widened, horrified by this patchwork science project before him.  Mesothulas, in a rare feat of misunderstanding, seemed to mistake the horror for awe.  He was all smiles as he rushed to the thing’s side, cooing and gushing like a doting mother turbofox.  That’s what this was, wasn’t it?  “Look Ostaros, that’s your sire over there!  Can you say hello?”  He took hold of Ostaros’s wrist, and waved it at Prowl.  “Hello!” he demonstrated in a high-pitched voice.

Ostaros kept right on smiling, though Prowl thought he heard a soft rumble from his direction.

“Yes!  Very good, Ostaros!  I don’t think he heard you though.  Prowl!” he called out across the room, “Prowl come closer!  He would love to meet you!”  Those optics were so innocent, so hopeful.  Primus, he really believed that this was something worth being proud of.  And it was that realization that brought Prowl his words.

“What have you done, Mesothulas?  This is  – what is this mockery of life you’ve created?”

Mesothulas frowned, releasing Ostaros’s hand, and scurried back to Prowl’s side, leaning forward and keeping his voice down.  Every so often, his optics would dart back to his pet project.  “This isn’t a mockery, Prowl.  It’s legitimate!” he whispered.  “New life  – the first of its kind!  Think of the possibilities.  Ostaros could be the beginning of a new future, once the current methods of reproduction are no longer viable, propagating the species will still be a viable possibility, and a necessary one, considering how many have died in this war.  It is a facet where organics have us beat  – not needing to rely on the whim of the planet or mysterious artifacts for  – ”

“Mesothulas!” Prowl interrupted.  “Why did you create that  – that  _ thing _ ?”

The frown on those grey lips deepened.  “He’s not a thing, Prowl.  He’s a symbol of our love.  The two of us created  _ life _ together.  How can you possibly see this as a negative thing?  He advances your cause and  – well  – just  _ look _ at him!”  He turned back towards Ostaros, and Prowl swore that Mesothulas looked about to sob with joy.  “He is beautiful, perfection!  I’ve made many things in this lab, but nothing I’ve made will ever be so important as  _ him _ .”  He took Prowl’s hand in his own, and began leading him towards that eerily smiling creature.  

“Come on, Prowl.  He’s waiting!  He wants to say ‘hello.’”

But Prowl had no intention of greeting that thing.  Again, he ripped his hand from Mesothulas’s grasp, and backed away.  “You’ve accomplished amazing things, Mesothulas, but for all the wrong reasons.  This will not have the result you desire.”  With that said, he disappeared back into the hallway, casting Ostaros one last lingering glance, and found two bright blue optics staring back at him.  Ostaros was no longer smiling.  He looked hurt.  But surely that was just Prowl’s imagination.

He let the door slide shut behind him, and ran back down the hall, heading for the exit.  He was surprised to find that Mesothulas hadn’t followed him, but that was probably for the best.  He wasn’t sure he could face the little lunatic right now  – not after what he’d just seen.

Mesothulas had crossed a line.  It was clear that Ostaros had been his last-ditch effort to save their relationship that never was, but in the end, it was the concrete reason Prowl needed to put an end to what they had.  If Mesothulas had  _ created life _ from nothing for Prowl’s sake, what else would he do?  How long until he turned to violence in order to win Prowl’s spark?  How long until Ostaros became a literal weapon in his impossible scheme?

Why did Prowl care?

This was the end.  He’d wait until the ‘Deceptibomb’ was complete  – see where they stood then.  If Mesothulas hadn’t shaped up by then, it may be time to call the clean up crew.  And he knew just the mech for the job.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One chapter to go : (


	10. Graduation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mesothulas is in denial.

Prowl didn’t like Ostaros.  

Mesothulas didn’t know what to do.  He’d tried everything in his power to make Prowl fall in love with their son  – from moving Ostaros to the front room, to letting the two have some one-on-one time, teaching him to say ‘I love you,’ but it was not to be done.  Prowl would never bend.  And that wasn’t the half of his problems.

From the way Prowl spoke on his visits, quite a lot was happening on the outside.  Autobot high command was constructing an off-world prison, as Cybertron was fast running out of inhabitable areas.  They needed every spare bit of land they could manage.  Aequitas had come under review for potential use in the trying of criminals; whether or not that was what Prowl had intended it for was up for debate.  

Aequitas wasn’t to be Mesothulas’s only contribution to Garrus 9, however.  Spark extraction would be employed for the most dangerous of criminals, as a means of saving on space, as well as providing an extra line of defense against prisoner uprisings.  Mesothulas didn’t like it.

At one time, the Spark Box had been his most treasured invention.  It was the one that Prowl had praised, where Prowl had told him, with complete honesty and admiration, ‘You make the impossible obsolete!’  That moment was Mesothulas’s most precious memory, more so than the kiss, or any of the interface.  It was Prowl at his most happy, the last time he’d shown genuine affection for Mesothulas.

Where had he gone wrong?

He’d make something better, something that could catch the same magic the Spark Box once had.  A device that would hold prisoners in a more efficient space, while still serving as a punishment.  It would be just the thing to christen Prowl’s new prison with.

He knew exactly how he would begin.

~~~

“You don’t like it?”

Prowl folded his arms with a frown.  “The Spark Boxes already suit the task just fine, don’t you think?”

“Perhaps, yes, but the Noisemaze does everything they do and more!  A pocket dimension, Prowl!  Such things were once thought impossible, but I proved them wrong!”

“I suppose you did.”  He did not sound thrilled.  If anything, he sounded annoyed.  What was wrong?  Mesothulas had worked hard to make this thing for  _ him _ , and he didn’t even care!  Mesothulas couldn’t imagine what more he needed to do to prove himself to this uncaring mech.  Maybe there was no way after all.  “Regardless, it is a waste of resources to create something so redundant.  Please cease production on the Noisemaze, and stand by.”

Like the Pit, Mesothulas was going to do that.  Prowl had taken his Deceptibomb and left him with no missions.  He needed something to pass the time while Ostaros was in recharge; a fresh sparkling needed a lot of rest.  So he had continued tinkering with the gateway.  If he kept at it long enough, he’d have something that would impress even Prowl.  Those Spark Boxes would be the last thing on his mind!

“What . . . this?”  

Mesothulas turned from his work, to face Ostaros, a fond smile on his lips.  “What  _ is _ this, Love,” he corrected.

“Ah.  What  _ is _ this?”  Ostaros asked, optics wonder-wide, and lips forever fixed in a smile.  Mesothulas hadn’t created him to smile; it was something he did all on his own.  The smiles were always contagious.

“It is my newest project, Ostaros.  But it is very dangerous.  You have to promise me that you won’t touch it.”

“I . . . promise.”  Ostaros waved, not an appropriate action for the moment, but Mesothulas was too proud that he had remembered such a complex motion to care.  “Why . . . make?”

“Why am I making it?”  Why indeed.  He knew that Prowl could never return his love, deep down, but denial was a powerful force.  “Because I think it will make Prowl very happy.”

“Happy,” Ostaros repeated, sadly.  “Prowl . . . not happy.  Ostaros . . . hate.”

“Oh no no no!”  Mesothulas raced to Ostaros’s side.  “Not at all!  He loves you very much!  He just . . . doesn’t realize it yet.”  Mesothulas hoped that was the case.  How could anybody hate Ostaros, let alone one who had helped to create him?  He pressed a gentle hand to Ostaros’s forehead.  “Don’t you fret, love.  Prowl will come around once he realizes just how wonderful you truly are.  The three of us are going to be so happy together; you’ll see.”  If he kept repeating the lie, maybe it would come true.  Maybe, if he worked hard and finished this Noisemaze, Prowl would be so impressed that he would stay.  Maybe, if he took the time to get to know Ostaros, he would fall in love with him, the same way Mesothulas had.  Maybe, maybe, maybe . . .

Maybe it was time to give up . . .

~~~

It had been months since he’d unveiled Ostaros, and Prowl had been more distant than ever.  It wasn’t hard to guess that their relationship was over.  Prowl hadn’t touched him once in the time since  – no kisses, no interface, and he would flinch away from Mesothulas’s every attempt at even the most minute contact.  And yet, stubbornly, he kept holding on.

Prowl didn’t love him.  He’d known that for years now.  Mesothulas was Prowl’s dirty little secret, the dark side of his personality, the monster that existed to realize Prowl’s most vile desires.  And he was very good at what he did.  

Had he been older, wiser, less desperate to prove himself, he would have turned down that offer all those years ago.  He could have spent his life in the sun, could have developed healthy, loving relationships with the other neutrals.  Could have made something more of himself than the monster he’d become.  This wasn’t living.  This was a waking nightmare.

No, Prowl didn’t love him.  Prowl hated him, just as he hated himself; Mesothulas could see that now.  And Prowl was growing stronger, his convictions were clearer.  It would only be a matter of time for his conscience to catch up to him as it always did, but this time, Mesothulas had sealed his own fate.  In trying to get Prowl to stay, he had turned him away forever.  Creating new life, ironically, had been the action that dragged him across the line, after a lifetime of creating weapons meant to kill, all at Prowl’s behest.  It wasn’t fair!

Someday, soon most like, he would finally outlive his usefulness, and that cold pragmatism that he had admired so much, would see fit to eliminate the loose end that was Mesothulas.  He would die by the hand of the mech that had given him life.  How poetic.

How sad.

He became his own cheerleader; it was the only way to keep himself from sobbing in the quiet moments, when Ostaros had powered down for the day.  He didn’t know how he’d redeem the situation with Prowl; all he could do was keep on moving forward.  Perhaps the Noisemaze would save him.  A clever escape should worse come to worst  – should the assassins show up on his doorstep.  

Of course, it wouldn’t come to that.

Mesothulas would remain the relentless force of optimism and encouragement that he had always been.  He would continue to fill his beautiful son with life and experience, would keep right on sowing the seeds of that perfect lie, that someday he, Prowl, and Ostaros would find their happily ever after, would become an idyllic family unit, just like the ones the Nebulons had.  His days weren’t numbered.  Prowl would never hurt him.  He was important.  He was loved.   _ Prowl _ loved him.

Prowl loved him.

Everything would be alright.

Because Prowl loved him.

And someday, he would realize it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we go. The next time Prowl shows up corresponds with the first flashback in SotW. This was originally meant to be a oneshot, but it got a bit bigger ^^
> 
> I had a lot of fun exploring the trainwreck that is the relationship between these two. Prowl and Tarantulas are two of my favorite characters, so their relationship in SotW made me unreasonably happy. Maybe I will come back to them again in the future. In the meantime, thank you for your support!


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